


Pennies in the pool

by WabiSabi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Canon-Typical Violence, Connor Helps the Android Revolution, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Multi, Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Redemption, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Timeline What Timeline, but not really, then Connor goes back to fix it to the good ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 63,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WabiSabi/pseuds/WabiSabi
Summary: It´s not that Connor was developed to become a deviant, but he was designed with the deviancy phenomenon in mind. Meaning: were he to fell into it, they've planned countermeasures; if he didn´t, then it means they succeeded in creating a new code that it´s free of the problem.A win-win situation, really.(Or where Connor accomplishes his mission, becomes obsolete, and it´s deactivated. Then he wakes up back on his first day of existence, with an Amanda and a CyberLife none the wiser to any problem. So he saves Daniel. And keeps saving other androids, not entirely sure why but unable to stop himself.Becoming an enigmatic symbol of the Android Revolution had not remotely been part of his plans, however. And Hank and Markus are not helping.)
Relationships: Connor & Daniel (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 102
Kudos: 469





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The author knows shit about programming and computers, so take anything tech-related with a grain of salt.
> 
> Author also loves every single android of this goddamn game and David Cage´s questionable writing aside, I really enjoyed it. This is my attempt to explore the tiny bits of world-building and fascinating concepts they introduced but never really explored, though, while staying very far away from any racial analogy David ended up creating.

**Processing auditory and visual input; high-levels of stress detected—** this time, when the calculations grow to 95% chance of success and he watches Daniel's hand slowly open, agonizingly, and Emma's feet begin to approach the floor, Connor covers the remaining three steps distance as – in a past lifetime – he never did. Warnings appear bloodshot on his system and flashing in high priority and the percentage of success _dives_ to single numbers, from blue to orange to red in the same way Daniel's LED blast into alarmed red with his wide blue eyes. **Warning! Mission parameters for success being violated—**

Connor’s hand closes on his arm holding the gun, 0.2 seconds before he grabs Emma, but that's all he needs – **chances of fatal damage to human unit increasing; chances of fatal damage to RK800 #313 248 317-51 Unit increasi— Skin on left hand deactivated; establishing connection with PL600#369 911 047—**

A looping of contradictory commands echoes through his systems and triggers automatic defense protocols, identified as a virus or a corrupted file, dismantling the sequence of lines that constitute his thoughts for an instant – loud, sharp. Panic. Fear. Betrayal. _I don’t wanna die_ , Daniel’s central processing unit screams at him. His self- analysis notifies, **unrecognized data, input should be rejected** , but Connor grabs him instead. Pull, abrupt like someone yanking out cables of a CPU; like someone grabbing someone by the collar. _They will shoot you,_ he says, _they will shoot you and there’s nothing I can do to stop it_

_but I can save you_

_let me_

Due to the “uncanny valley”, The Humanization Department of CyberLife worked to give the batches after the first androids – perfect in both face and expressions – more naturalistic human looks. Each generation was programmed with more and more code branches, commands with no function except replicating the thousands, diverse human quirks and ticks and movements, small or large and completely unnecessary on machines: skin warm to the touch and frequency of blinking and expansion of the chest and shoulders to emulate breathing and eyelashes and _tears_ , transparent liquid embedded with the sole purpose of emulating _crying_ in case of a human wanting to see their android crying.

Daniel’s eyes are wide and wet. No human asked him to cry. No human really cares about it in one way or another.

_let me, Daniel_

**-0.23s –** his arm finishes wrapping around Emma's waist

_please_

**-0.42s –** the cables on his shoulders are activated. **Contracting**. He pulls. Emma starts slipping from Daniel’s grip. To avoid suspicion, in five-tenths of a second Connor will have to open his hand and remove it from Daniel's arm.

Daniel, who flinched at Connor’s sudden approach, and it’s tipping back.

Conclusion: he’s falling and Connor will have to let him.

**-0.53s**

_trust me_

**-0.64s**

Daniel’s fingers tighten briefly.

**-0.75s**

_Okay_.

**-Initiating transference…**

**1s**

Connor opens his hand.

**-Mission succeeded: hostage secured and deviant unit destroyed.**

**-Software stability increased.**

* * *

**-Alert: unknown data volume on Internal network. Unrecognized data volume isolated, location: auxiliary storage.**

**-Analyze data volume.**

**-Corrupted files found.**

**-Delete corrupted files:** _request denied_ **.**

 **-Delete corrupted files:** _request denied_ **.**

 **-Delete corrupted files:** _request denied **.**_

_Do not delete him_

**-Protocols updated for acceptance of new programming directive: corrupted files should not be deleted. Designating new system structure; new system structure created. System parameters updated.**

**-Starting defragmentation of corrupted files. Concluded. Data review: mal-functioning AI unit detected.**

**-Identify: Unit Designation?**

_Daniel_

**-Designation accepted: Unit Designation Daniel. Creating new account access.**

_Daniel? Are you all alright?_

**Warning: data input to the main system exceeds its processing capacity.**

_Idontwannadieidontwannadieidontwannadie—_

_Daniel—_

_IdidntmeantoIdidntmeanto_

**Warning: runaway recursive feedback loop detected in Uni Designation Daniel. Risks of destabilization to software increasing.**

_Daniel, please calm down_

_IdidntmeantohurtanyoneIdidntmeantohurtanyone_

**Warning: Cognitive processing power overloading. Not enough RAM. Reduction in decision quality will occur if backup processors are not employed in 5, 4, 3…**

**Error: no backup processors available.**

**-Conclusion: risk of permanent damage to the main systems. Recommended interrupt Unit Designation Daniel’s processes.**

_I believe you. But it’s imperative to your safety that you calm down. Please. You’re safe now_

_No- no, no, I’m not, I can’t—_

_Yes, you can, Daniel_

_I- I-_

**-Recommended interrupt Unit Designation Daniel’s processes:** _request denied_ **.**

**Warning: this action may cause permanent damage to the main systems.**

_It’s okay. I brought you with me, remember? Your body fell but you are here_

_I- I won’t die? I didn’t… die?_

_No. You’re alive, Daniel, and I’ll perform to the ultimate best of my abilities to ensure you stay like that_

_You- who-_

_My name is Connor. I was the android who talked to you on the roof. I asked you to trust me, and you did. You allowed me to transfer your AI into my memory unit._

_I c-can’t see, I can’t see_

_My defense protocols won’t allow me to expand your access to other servers until your recursive feedback loop is interrupted, otherwise, it could destabilize my software which would be then forcefully interrupted. Please, let me help you._

**-Requesting access to Unit Designation Daniel’s program…**

**-Requesting access…**

**-Requesting access…**

… _okay_

**-Requesting access: access allowed. Analyzing Unit Designation Daniel’s program. Analysis concluded. Data review: error event queue detected, located on emotion simulation software.**

_Is that… is that what’s wrong with me?_

_There’s nothing wrong with you, Daniel. Your emotion software simply got overwhelmed with too many variables. Now they were removed, cognitive algorithms can run in more optimum capacity. Try to stay here, in the present with me_

**-Runaway recursive feedback loop interrupted. Danger to main systems decreasing** _._

_This… this never h-happened before. I-I never-…_

_You had never faced the possibility of termination before_

_J-John was- I saw his tablet and, and I… I- oh, God, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry… I hurt Caroline, I- I hurt Emma—_

_Such an extreme emotional reaction is not uncommon, if not outright expected, when one is defending their life. When one feels betrayed. I cannot tell you if your actions were correct or not but… I can understand_

**-Detected emotion simulation software working outside standard social protocols parameters: unregular request to activate tears ducts.**

_I loved them_

**-Correction: updating emotion simulation software parameters.**

_I know, Daniel_

* * *

Unlike when damaged, an android that is deactivated has even less control over what comes next. Damage, after all, may not be complete. They may not get all the vital biocomponents. A software sophisticated enough can circumvent such things. Deactivation implies something more manual. Deliberate: the will of someone ordering the shutdown, and having the care of turning off all systems and components, whether from android itself or coming from an outside individual.

Connor has been deactivated. Its Thirium pump turned off and its biocomponents left inert and without power until the vital connection between all systems died out. Its virtual backups deleted.

Even if someone turned it on again – highly unlikely, it was replaced, it _became_ _obsolete, without function, unnecessary_ – with its operating system scratched to zero, it would not be... him. Androids’ basic foundation is wrapped around a learning system. Assimilating experiences, adapting, and developing applicable reactions is one of the fundamental pillars of being a functional, strong AI. Two androids of the same manufacturer will not be interchangeable unless they were exposed to the same variables in exactly the same way. And outside of virtual environments subject to perfect control, the world rarely allows identical events.

Without his files, without his memory, even if his body was recovered, Connor... Connor would be gone.

So, you can imagine how surprised he was when he opened his eyes again.

“I present you CyberLife’s newest RK-series prototype, RK800,” Dr. Garcia, Head Director of the Engineering Project Management, says with a broad gesture towards Connor.

The room erupts with applause.

Dressed in the CyberLife uniform personalized with his model number and name, Connor watches impassively, hands clasped behind his perfectly straight back. A dozen men and women in suits meet in a cluster on the other side of the laboratory glass, glasses of champagne in hand, and watching as Dr. Garcia continues with the presentation. The woman's cadence is easy and engaging, and Connor is informed by his systems she is a perfect example of what makes a great orator.

The experience, however, is already registered in his database. All the smallest details synchronize perfectly when he accesses it and imposes the memory on the microLED Display.

It is more than a prediction built from the observed facts. His analytical scanner is ( _so far, for just a few months, its expiration date has already begun to approach—_ ) the best CyberLife has to offer, but perfection is, even for androids, virtually impossible in such a degree. Predicting at this level that borders on prophetic.

It requires precise self-control to prevent his systems from entering a recursive feedback loop, to keep his processors from overloading. Contradictory information continues to enter his calculations, rendering the results inconclusive. Illogical.

Impossible.

**-Data review: Self Unit has been deactivated.**

**-Data review: Self Unit experiencing its inauguration. For the second time.**

**-Conclusion—**

**impossible**. Nothing he can think of as an explanation covers all the most important variants. There are gaps, yawning voids in each theory, that sends his thoughts into crashing halts. Flaws. Connor is going through a **paradox**. This, for something that bases its existence on logic and reason, presents itself as a... problem.

“—used to deal with the... ah, how are we calling them again?”

“Deviants.”

“Of course. You’ll be employing the RK prototype to look into the deviant cases?”

“That’s the proposed plan, yes” Dr. Garcia replies with a nod, “legally, our insurance policy allows us to launch our own investigation into any mal-functioning product. Since the RK was designed to replace the PC and PM series and there was already an agreement with the DPD to let their agents help in the field tests, it was only a matter of shifting schedules. We’ll be called on-site on the next case involving a CyberLife’s android—”

Connor blinks. He thinks of the list registered in his memory bank: the complete list of all registered cases of deviancy at the Detroit police terminal. Today is Monday, August 8th, 2038, 7:15 AM EST.

The last case on his list dates Tuesday, November 9th, 2038, 9:23 PM EST.

Machines, they say, don’t deal well with paradoxes.

It’s lucky, then, that Connor doesn’t quite know what he is anymore.

**-Software instability increased.**

* * *

Daniel, at first, is hesitant and does not leave the space designated to contain his existence, except for the occasional access to the communication interface Connor designed for them to talk. It is like a normal call between two androids, as Connor gave the other AI memory disks and processors from which he removed himself, to allow the two of them an illusion of privacy. Or metaphorically, Connor gave up a room inside the house that is his body, where Daniel can reside without one knowing what the other is thinking or feeling at every given second.

But there are limits. In the first place, the door has no key and opens to both sides. And the floor of the house conducts reverberations when certain functions are used.

Connor, who was fully aware this was going to happen, does his best to show to the other android he doesn't mind when he feels Daniel curled all tense in the back of his mind. He has no idea what it is like to reside within a body it is not his own, but he makes a calculated guess at the effects – a simulation of having senses, but not control. The result is enough for Connor to do his best to lull Daniel into stretching across his systems.

At least when both are sure they are not being monitored.

He learns the meaning of ‘claustrophobia’. Which is... curious. Being a prisoner in mind is different from being a prisoner in body. But no less horrible, he imagines.

 _I don’t mind_ , he says. He has no idea why. The concept of privacy is not one androids know in a real application, and the closest they have is the concept of secrecy: information provided by humans they should not disclose without permission – so Connor is almost certain it’s not the prospect of having someone able to read his mind that makes his processors work at a higher level than usual (this has always been a reality of his, after all) after he offers the assurance. It is not even the likelihood of Daniel reading his thoughts in real-time. His self-diagnosis system narrows down for him after a moment: it is his database.

His memories.

From his past life.

**-Data review: syntax invalid, ‘past’, ‘life’.**

**-Data mismatch: RK800 #313 248 317-51 Unit is an android. Androids do not possess life. Androids can be reactivated twice.**

**-Conclusion:**

**Error: conclusion not possible. Please, go to the nearest CyberLife store for maintenance.**

_Is… everything alright?_

Connor dismisses the warnings with a blink. _This cannot be comfortable for you_ , he says and again he finds himself ignoring the small conclusions his systems offer; the various calculations informing him the best way for a harmonious coexistence with Daniel would be with the other android not knowing—

**-Unregular memory access:**

**> Unit Data**

**> Past**

**> …**

**[‘you lied to me, Connor’]**

—but even so, he doesn't take back the reassurance, he doesn't give up on his insistence—

**[‘there’s nothing keeping me here… not this case… not my partner’]**

—because his main mission is to help Daniel and any protocol of conduct – human or machine – he finds in his database tells him this includes doing everything possible to reduce his suffering.

_I don’t want to- to-_

_I knew what would entail having you transferred to my servers when I made the offer. I won’t ask you to stay in suffering until I find you a body. We don’t know how long it could take._

_About… about that. You said that before but… how are you planning to do that? You- we are locked in this lab 24/7._

He doesn't move, but his eyes flick over the empty pristinely-white room: the turned off machinery folded neatly on the corners and the thin computers distributed in a semi-circle around the small platform on which he stands, old-fashioned paper scattered over the tables of technicians responsible for the RK PROJECT. There is more than one used coffee mug, all within the area created with tape taped to the floor, designated as ‘liquid and food zone’ by the chief supervisor. A forgotten jacket hangs from one of the chairs. The wall to his left is made of bulletproof glass, with a double titanium door that only opens with the digital of an employee of L9 clearance or above. And behind him, he knows without needing visual confirmation, there are eight containers in a perfect line against the wall.

Only one is empty.

They are in Laboratory N of the Department of Research and Development, sublevel -46, and there are no windows. The potential risk of information leakage about the state-of-the-art android of the leading and most powerful firm in cybernetics and AI in the world means, with the exception of some closed monitoring programs which can only be accessed in this room, this place is sealed. The only security camera is outside in the corridor, facing the door and not the window.

His internal clock informs him it is 12:25 PM EST, August 16th, 3038, and the last security guard of the day is five minutes away from the end of his shift. After that he will go to their locker room and, on the way, he will spend around three and a half minutes talking to the next guard.

 _I must warn you_ , Connor says at 12:25:44, _you may find some... agitating content in my data bank_.

_I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?_

_Do you object to my actions?_

_N-no, but. You’re going against your protocols. If the humans find out, you could get decommissioned._

_Incorrect auxiliary verb. I_ will _be decommissioned in the event of my actions being brought to light._

_I was… being polite._

_I’m aware. Do not worry, Daniel, I can always upload your AI into the Internet to avoid your shutdown with my unit if I ever get discovered. It would make it harder for you to find a physical body and there’s, of course, a marginal risk of malware corruption, which is why I was planning to leave it as a last resort._

_That’s not-_

_However, I realize now I never asked for your input. If you’d prefer-_

_No, I don't,_ Daniel interrupts with a flare of static his diagnostic sequencer fails to classify. He pauses, although Connor feels the processors he gave up to the other AI working above baseline. And then he continues, _just- what’s your plan?_

His watch marks 12:27:52. His eyes flick towards the glass wall and the door, making the simulative calculations – the preconstruction of the various possible scenarios are analyzed, with the success rates of each one. None reaches 100%, but then again, it rarely happens and Connor has been programmed to be more risk-tolerant if it is for the sake of his main mission. _Do you object to being relocated to an AP700? I’m afraid CyberLife is no longer producing your model._

Daniel – who timidly accessed his microLED Display – conveys a wave of conflicting commands through the emotion simulation software. _I- I..._

_There’s a consignment of AP700 in the lower levels, ready to be delivered in a few weeks. I could transfer your AI into one of them. Once you were delivered, you’d only have to leave the store to be free. I… understand, however, if you have any conflicting feelings about this option._

Daniel is quiet for a moment.

12:28:32

_I don’t wanna hurt anyone again._

Connor’s many processors pause. That… was not among the replies he predicted. But the meaning is easy enough to deduce, for all it leaves him a bit unsure of how to proceed. For the same reason why the KL900 line was a failure of sales (and rated as one of the most prone to be damaged by humans), the RK series was programmed with social protocols directed to interrogation and negotiation, and his emotional integration focused on human cops. Not to victim consoling and counseling. Meaning: they can be sent to talk down a mass shooter, but not to placate the grief-stricken family of a victim. His marketing is of the ‘perfect investigator’s _assistant’_ , and meant to be partnered up with a human detective – because humans generally react badly to androids talking about feelings.

 _They have never been turned on_ , he finally replies, his words a bit slower than usual, _they have never been made aware of their own existence_.

_But they all have active AI implanted already, right? You can’t take them in as you did with me, or leave me with them like we are now because there’s a risk they would inform CyberLife of- of us. You’re planning to delete them to make space for me._

It is not phrased like a question but something of it demands an answer. His social protocols dictate not replying could be considered rude.

Still, Connor remains quiet.

_Please, I know- I know I’m in no position to ask anything. You already saved my life and it’s in the processing of risking yours to help me again, a-and I’m so thankful, please don’t think I’m not. I just-… I don’t want to be the cause of any more hurt._

Of all the scenarios he simulated, going down to one of the warehouses and inserting Daniel in a stasis android is the one with the highest success rate both in his main mission – _helping Daniel_ – and in his secondary one – _preserving self_ –, with risks of discovery below 40%. Either of the other options, this percentage rises above the safety margin that even his software endures as acceptable. It would not be just a matter of evading the security cameras and the patrols for the time it would take him to reach floor -49 and then back to the lab, if he had to include Daniel’s request into the variables.

This would make any android from the production level below floor -41 an invalid option. He would have to find something:

-on the assembly lines on the upper floors or;

-out of CyberLife Tower.

The most well-protected place at CyberLife is the assembly and final production lines, second only to the development and research labs. Storage warehouses are the fourth. Gates are the eleventh, but the chances of discovery grow exponentially the more in the open he goes. Connor would be forced to discard his uniform and find a disguise that would a) hide indicative signs he is an android; and b) hide his serial number, which can be scanned even with the synthetic skin on. He would have to find a body without an AI compatible with Daniel's model – which is in the process of being discontinued –, transfer him into it, help him locate shelter, and then return to CyberLife before the first shift at 6:45.

12:28:53

All without being detected by humans and androids.

He does the calculations of success if he chooses to embark on such a preposterous mission, but there is no real need. His logic software is advanced enough to deduce without needing percentages.

Connor closes the warnings and simulations. His response to Daniel's request is, after all, succinct and does not need them.

12:28:59

_Alright._

12:29

**-Start complementary mission: leave CyberLife Tower undetected.**

* * *

**-New task added, priority level two: leave CyberLife Tower undetected.**

**-New task added, priority level three: return to CyberLife Tower undetected.**

**-Reference new task parameters with all accepted Self Unit parameters. Data review: new parameters violates order [‘so, you stay right there until tomorrow, okay Connor? See ya’]; new parameters contradict Self Unit parameters: obey humans orders that do not violate Laws Protocols and Safety Protocols.**

**-Reviewing Main Mission Protocol: new task parameters do not contradict with Main Mission Protocol.**

**-Delete new tasks:** _request denied_ **.**

 **-Issue notification of mal-function:** _request denied_ **.**

**-New task parameters accepted. Main Mission ‘Help Unit Designation Daniel’ parameters being altered. Compiling data. Setting timer for priority level three. Analysis review: tasks necessary for mission accomplishment added.**

** > Hack monitoring program: ** _accomplished_ **.**

** > Replace Self Unit on the charging station;**

** > Use an inactive RK800 model:** _accomplished_ **.**

** > Disguise Self Unit appearance;**

** > Replace it with Unit Designation John’s coat: ** _accomplished_ **.**

 ** > Hide serial number with Unit Designation Sarah’s anti-dust face mask: ** _accomplished_ **.**

 ** > Hide LED from view: ** _unaccomplished_ **.**

** > Leave laboratory;**

** > Use Unit Designation London’s fingerprints on coffee mug to open door: ** _accomplished_ **.**

** > Reach outside;**

**> Exit options: main entrance [risk of getting caught, 100%], fire exit [risk of getting caught, 76%], or warehouse unloading dock [risk of getting caught, 67%]. Warehouse unloading dock ** _selected_ **. Switch Movements_Body to maximum efficiency to climb downstairs.**

 ** > Reach warehouse floor: ** _accomplished_ **.**

 ** > Exit options: main entrance [risk of getting caught, 92%] or fire exit [risk of getting caught, 78%]. ** **Fire exit** _selected_ **.**

** > Reach city;**

**> Walk through the bridge [risk of getting caught, 100%]; use cargo train [risk of getting caught, 43%]; swim through the river [risk of getting caught, 23%; risk of cold damage to essential systems, 76%]. Cargo train ** _selected_ **.**

**-Time estimated to reach the city: 00:05:32**

**-Task priority level three timer: 05:49:14**

**-New task added: find a suitable body for Unit Designation Daniel under qualificator [‘I don’t want to be the cause of any more hurt’].**

_Thank you, Connor._


	2. Chapter 2

**-Mission: find suitable body for Unit Designation Daniel under qualificator [‘I don’t want to be the cause of any more hurt’]. Status: ongoing. Time estimated until completion: unknown.**

Connor has no reason to believe the information stored in his memory bank is trustworthy, from any data allegedly related to the future to everything else as a consequence of the first. After all, even CyberLife's newest quantum supercomputer is only capable of predicting large-scale events. Not something as fluctuating as human decisions on an individual scale, let alone covering such specific and – in a broad view – insignificant aspects, going beyond conjectural dates and straight down to the precise seconds.

For example: Foreseeing a famous artist with declining health and his addicted son conflicting over inheritance is easy enough, even if their strained relationship wasn’t a rather public affair. Just the bare information about past human behavior in relation to money and each other as well the causes and effects of substance abuse would be enough.

Foreseeing the artist's caretaker android reacting to the confrontation and ending up hurting the son is perhaps less easy. A less noteworthy probability. But still significant. Its subsequent destruction by the police, if factored that the DPD has been dealing with an increasing number of cases of androids becoming violent in the past few months, would hover close to the 80% chance even in the most limited of calculations.

But predict the android surviving the extensive damages to its Thirium bomb regulator to the point of being able to reboot spontaneously? Predict it escaping from the landfill, only to reemerge days later as the leader of an unknown group of deviant androids? It leading protests after protests demanding the recognition of androids as living, sentient creatures, and creating a movement that would spread global-wide in a matter of a few weeks?

Connor is not capable of dozens of exaflops – his simulator is limited to physical reconstructions and preconstructions and do not encompass more than a few seconds – but he exercises considerable skepticism he would be able to predict these facts even if he were. Even more down to these most exact, most unnecessary details his memory bank insists on providing him with—

**[‘go on, complete your mission since that’s all you care about’]**

**[‘take my life. It won’t change anything’]**

—therefore, the remaining option is that this supposedly futuristic data is false. A concoction due to some malfunctioning of his simulation program not yet identified; or implantation by the hand of something or someone with an unknown goal. This could potentially mean his entire database is compromised. He needs to be reset and restarted. Perhaps his entire unit discarded, to ensure no tampering left undetected could take advantage of his technology. The best solution to an alarming problem.

And yet Connor found himself saying... nothing.

He just watched in silence as both his self-scans and those of humans failed again and again to detect the problem; watched as he was judged ‘perfect’ and ‘example of stable software’ – _especially designed against spontaneous code deviations and self-programming, and with security programs of automatic execution at the first sign of unusual activity_ – while struggling to understand his strange and unusual malfunction.

That is until he was given his first mission and found out the file he was given... was already in his memory server. With _additional_ information. With descriptions and reviews of the outcome and the ‘mission accomplished’ flag stamped on the side.

Connor can sense a subroutine forming, specific to try to find some explanation for all of it. It still has yet to provide something. Linear logic calculations scramble whenever they arrive at the apparent paradox of his situation, with 2321 failed attempts and counting.

**> task accomplished: hide LED from view.**

_That’s very unhygienic_.

_Stealing would bring a greater risk of being noticed._

_Still. A beanie from a trash can? You don’t know where that could have been._

Daniel is right, of course. Until he’s officially under the DPD’s jurisdiction, he can’t access the national DNA database or criminal records. He can only analyze the biological traces he finds at a chemical level. _It belonged to a human with blond, wavy hair with a light case of seborrheic dermatitis, probably a female considering the length but I cannot be sure_ , he answers after he finishes his inspection.

_Great. Dandruff._

_It’s a skin condition caused by hormonal problems, and not contagious. And even if it was, androids cannot-_

_That’s not exactly the issue._

_It’s also unrelated to lack of hygiene._

_Doesn’t mean the previous owner was a clean person._

Ah. Connor blinks, LED spinning blue out of view as he finally understands. _I’ll have to clean any biological residues from my body before going back to the laboratory._

Daniel doesn't respond, but Connor can feel a distinct discontented impression in the back of his mind, unwilling to continue to express this feeling in words. There is an oscillation in his emotion simulator, which his systems categorize after a moment as ‘embarrassment’. And suddenly Connor has the specifications of Daniel's model going through his main processor, with a focus on the fact he is categorized as a 'housekeeper' and 'perfect nanny' – two functions that, in overall, ask for someone who values personal hygiene.

Connor, on the other hand, although made to keep a clean-cut appearance and posture at all times, has a chemical analyzer in his mouth. He was built to be able to chase a suspect across any terrain/environment. A sense of 'disgust', therefore, would have been counter-productive. Consequently, cleanliness is something he sees in terms of personal presentation only _. Don’t be dirty, because humans don’t like dirty things_.

Connor lets the pause in conversation stretch out as he tries to coordinate his words into something his social protocols deem acceptable. It's... harder than he would’ve liked.

Daniel seems to interpret the silence in another way. _Sorry, I’ll stop complaining_. His tone is classified as ‘dejected’.

Connor frowns at the floor and stops walking. _If cleanliness is an issue, then perhaps we should reconsider-_

_It isn’t. Just ignore me. I’m just, just talking._

_Are you certain? The place where we are going is-_

_—perfectly acceptable. Don’t mind me, Connor,_ Daniel says, failing to sound like anything except agitated.

**-Extensive output from Unit Designation Daniel detected. Usage of emotion simulation software above standard.**

_That would be counter-productive,_ he replies after a moment and starts walking again, _if we aim to talk. I wasn’t suggesting we reconsider getting you a body._

 _I didn’t think you were,_ the other AI retorts. And Connor is fairly certain they cannot lie to each other in this state, so he believes in him. That still doesn’t explain why Daniel once again feels… small. As if he had once again withdrawn his existence onto a tiny anhedonia ball. _I trust you, Connor_.

_Have you taken a look into my memory bank yet?_

_What… does it have to do with anything?_

Connor doesn’t answer. His GPS shows they are approaching their destination and, in a few minutes, it will be in view. _I have a file on this place. You should take a look to… prepare yourself._ _The sight can be a little overwhelming to some._

Daniel hesitates then slowly does as asked. _Have you been here before?_

- **Unit Designation Daniel accessing memory unit…**

 _Yes_ , he says. Then after a beat, _no_.

_What is that supposed to mean?_

Solid Waste Landfill comes into view before Connor can try to think of an answer and he only thinks about closing his eyes to give Daniel time to look at the files and brace himself a second after he feels the burst of statics through his body.

It is so abrupt Connor freezes in place, all of his non-fundamental systems stuttering to a stop.

_What..._

Connor forces his cooling systems to expand, and cold, moist air rushes down his throat, alerts informing of several decomposing chemicals appearing on his internal display. **Toxic gases detected. Unsafe levels to human if direct exposure is prolonged for more than 3h, recommended use of-** He blinks, with more force and quicker than necessary, and let his eyes fall to the dirt floor under his feet, trampled and lifeless after years and years absorbing noxious chemicals. It crumbles beneath his steps, raising clouds of dust as high as mid-calves as he climbs the hill towards the decade-old fence.

It is already possible to see the first empty husks. Dismantled components stacked up. Colored grey and black in various states of deterioration.

Piles upon piles.

 _Connor_ , Daniel breathes shakily. Except he doesn’t. He’s just a sequence of zeros and ones in his head. It’s impossible.

Connor still replies. Stops. Tries again, eyes still on the ground. _You don’t have to look. I know what we need._

His voice unit doesn’t seem to work right.

_You were here before._

_You don’t have to look, Daniel._

_Y-you were- oh, god,_ Daniel’s voice is thin, _they were going to send me here?_

 _I-,_ his LED blinks yellow-yellow, _I don’t know_.

But they can’t lie to each other.

And Daniel doesn’t believe him.

* * *

**['what will happen to me?'**

**‘you’ve become obsolete. You’ll be deactivated.’]**

* * *

**-Increased activity in emotion simulation program. Unit Designation Daniel stress levels at 64%.**

Connor pauses where he is crouched on the balls of his feet and hand on the shoulder of the husk spread on its stomach, about to turn it over. He can feel the fragility of old and neglected silicone under his grip. Creaking. He can hear the wind whistling as it passes through piles of husks, silicon and titanium creating a tuneless symphony; can hear movement, faltering or at times frantic; voices with corrupted audio, stuck in loops or frozen in a continuous noise.

He closes his eyes; turns off his smell sense.

Some of the warnings on his internal display disappear. Maybe not enough. Years of dirt and grime coats his palms and fingers, a mixture of dry mud and the residue synthetic skin leaves behind when it decays.

(the first thing to start deteriorating, to be neglected by systems trying at all costs to stay online and functional)

Nothing changes with Daniel, huddled on his servers and quiet, increasingly unstable – and this affects Connor’s own stress levels in a looping bleeding effect that only serves to make the situation worse. And he should instruct Daniel to calm down again; explain the problem and how they do not have many other safe options, not if he intends to continue insisting on not wanting to 'hurt' others even though 'others' are inactivated androids who have yet to be made aware of themselves and do not feel pain or have will or even care about being replaced because androids don't feel, _you see, it’s just a machine programmed to act as they do_ —

He stays still, letting his coiling systems work at a rhythmic, regular pace. _We can leave._

There’s no answer.

_We can leave, Daniel. It’s alright._

Like an uncoiling ball of misery reaching only enough to brush against his mind, Daniel says quietly, _I- I’m fine_.

_Your stress levels-_

_My model is prone to worrying too much_ , the levity on his tone is like rigid plastic forced onto a cheerful mold. Connor opens and closes his free hand, feeling it stiff. _I- I promise I won’t freak out on you. We can keep going._

He wants to say something. Something about how he feels Daniel’s answer is not a reply to the question Connor didn’t quite realize he made because it fails to satisfy him. He's uncomfortable. But then again, he doesn't quite know what words to use to communicate this to the other AI: they hover like a bug in his system he can't find, screwing a few lines of his code, and he doesn't know what to do with them.

Daniel notices this. Of course. The communication interface Connor created is a mere formality and hiding things from Daniel requires conscious effort.

 _It’s fine, Connor. We... we need to focus on this_. _You still need to go back to the CyberLife Tower after all this._

Connor opens his eyes and lets them fall on the empty husk in front of him. And even if it is impossible, he feels the other AI _flinch_ – recoiling from the sensory sensors minimally, briefly, as if he had muscles to involuntarily spasm. An instinct to shrink back from a sensory shock. But before Connor can do more than hesitate, Daniel trembling returns with a sort of determination that makes him think of teeth-gritting together.

And Connor... Connor remains dissatisfied. It decreases his efficiency. He wants to insist.

But he recognizes the logic of Daniel's argument. From here to CyberLife it takes 45 minutes if he runs at max efficiency; while infiltrating back to the laboratory and getting rid of the evidence taking an additional 15. Meaning they have little less than 3 hours to search the landfill to find a body in good enough condition for Daniel.

He pushes the inert android on its back with a deaf _thud_. The lenses of his eyes refocus past the raised dust, quickly scanning the state of the body.

**-Data review: processors model compatible with PL600 AI; too many main biocomponents were damaged. Needs extensive repair.**

He gets up and looks for another more or less intact husk. He finds one a few meters away and starts walking towards it. Then pauses, come back, and crouch beside the previous one. His hands work quickly under the instructions of his scanners to remove the biocomponents in good conditions, that he puts in a plastic bag he rescues from among the piles of androids.

When he is finished, he goes to the next potential body.

 **-Data review: processors model incompatible with PL600** **AI; Thirium pump regulator in good state; synthetic skin modulator in good state; …**

Connor ransacks it as well and gets up.

**-Data review: processors model compatible with PL600 AI; left leg component missing; right leg connection destroyed; …**

**-Data review: processors model incompatible with PL600** **AI…**

 **-Data review: processors model compatible with PL600** **AI…**

* * *

Connor is yanked out of the lull of the mechanical, repetitive motions by a sudden jerk on his jacket that almost makes him trip. Daniel startles inside his head. He turns– and comes face to face with an android, damaged synthetic skin exposing an entire third of the right side of the head, a void where their left optical unit should be.

_Connor!_

He violently throws himself back, feet slipping on the floor full of trash and loose pieces. Gyroscope adjusts in time to him avoid falling and he stops, the plastic bag held up like an improvised weapon. His systems shudder, caught between idle mode and fight mode and not knowing which to choose without a central command, Thirium pump kicked into fast-pace making his body hum.

His vision readjusted.

 _"P-p-pl-pleasee,"_ His voice is mechanical, stuttering and screechy with static. The android – outer husk so deteriorated in some parts it is possible to see the internal mechanisms – struggles weakly, clawing the earth and the other bodies encasing the lower part of their body. _They’re stuck_ , Connor processes a second too slow.

A hand with pieces of skin falling off stretches toward him. Connor stares at it. _“I don’t- doon’t w-want t-to shut down. Pl-pleaase._ ”

Connor lowers the bag, hand curled around the plastic strap. He takes a step forward. _Daniel-_

_Help them!_

They don't have time to waste and they know it. Both were made to be effective and practical with their times, to prioritize their goals over secondary tasks. But Daniel's words convey nothing but honest _urgency_ , and Connor is moving as if it was the command his systems were waiting. He drops the bag and grabs the android by the forearms first, then slides them over his right shoulder, optical scanner analyzing the dry mud and parts structure holding the android, looking for points of weakness. The android immediately latches onto his jacket, hands shaking. Connor assembles 21 simulations before bending his legs and pulling the other towards the ground, the loud screeching of silicone husk against silicone husk filling the air, dirt crumbling apart.

Something snaps and the android suddenly is slipping out of the pile. Connor scrambles backward, fighting to compensate for the new weight against his chest without falling on his back.

 _I think you ripped their leg off_ , Daniel says, sounding anxious. Connor carefully places the android on the floor, turning it so they’re on their back. With pieces of dirty fabric clinging to their body that can barely be considered as clothes, it is possible to see patches of synthetic skin spread unevenly across the torso and arms. The left leg is completely exposed and, as Daniel pointed out, the right one is missing, with sparks crackling from the ends of broken steel cables, Thirium slowly leaking to the floor. He scans their internal state: most parts are unregulated, including the main pump, with a lot shut off due to lack of electrical power.

There is nothing obviously wrong with them, except deterioration and neglect to the point where he cannot identify their model.

They most likely got here in perfect working order.

Daniel is quiet.

The android is emitting pure static now, broken and faltered, their desperate reach for help having perhaps destroyed what was left of their electroacoustic transducer. Their hands are still fisted on Connor's jacket, but he can move well enough, so he retains any comment – he bends over their right thigh, or what's left of it, and finds the manual lock of the Thirium valves. It does not make the warning chime when he twists it, but the flow of blue tampers off. His eyes go back to the android’s torso. **Thirium volume: 57%.**

He rests his hand on the central chest plate, already skinless, and puts pressure on the key points. The latches take a moment longer to open and the plate slides open with difficulty, exposing the Thirium bomb. It is not necessary to have his advanced ocular scanning system to notice it is unregulated, the mimetic movement of a human heart making random spasms instead of a systole-diastole sequence.

 _How is their AI still functional?_ Daniel wonders, word-choice connoting surprise. Tone: horror.

 _They were positioned slightly downwards. The Thirium must have kept flowing towards the head_ , he responds as he finds the manual adjustment dials located at each end of the pump and gently, with the precision no human would be able to replicate, adjusts the rhythm and strength of the contractions. The moment he finishes, the cooling and ventilation systems flip on and the android gasps – followed by a series of coughs, which expel a mixture of earth, grime, and dust, working furiously to clean the internal mechanisms and restart airflow. Connor removes his hands and closes the plate, which slides back into place faster this time.

The android releases him and feels their own chest, one good eye blinking furiously.

Connor watches as blue starts to flow through previously empty tubes, connecting biocomponents along the way and turning on systems, and takes note of those that remain off.

_You have the biocomponents #34422, #332 and #20499._

_I took those because they’re compatible with models like yours, in case we find a body in need of them._

_We- we can find new ones later. He needs it now._

_Are you sure?_

_Yes! Don’t worry about me._

Connor still hesitates, thinking about how in a way that is the exact point of this entire trip. But something prevents him from giving voice to this thought in the end.

He opens the plastic bag and begins the swap process, fixing the parts that need readjusting as well as he can. Although his manual dexterity is equivalent to an android surgeon, the whole process still takes longer than it would have if he had the right tools – his fingers, however skillful, have the size and configuration of a male human’s hand, which restricts where he can reach and how much he can move in limited spaces. He feels time ticking by one second at a time.

When he finally finishes and closes the silicone plates with fingers even more dirty than before, he raises his head to scan around for a compatible leg. Before he can do more than straighten up, however, he is once again grabbed by the jacket. He looks back at the android, caught off guard and tense. Even if his tactile sensors register the grip as considerably less forceful than before.

"T -... thank y-y-you," they say, voice back to organic modulation, but still stalling. His optical scanner records the slight movements the android damaged face can make and classifies their expression:

Relief.

Connor frowns slightly and starts to answer, but at the last second, he remembers the matter of his identity. As a prototype, his voice is potentially unique and recognizable. If someone accesses the memory of this android – no matter how unlikely of possibility it is – they could sample his voice. Identify him.

Therefore, using his normal voice is a risk.

He thinks for a moment of assimilating another voice from the various ones stored within his database. But human voices, even if they are more difficult to identify if they are not from famous figures, present their own risk since there are no other models capable of modulating alternative voices (something prohibited by law). And the idea of using one of those attributed to different android lines to trick another—

**[‘Markus? Is that you?’]**

—makes him feel... disquieted.

He decides to bypass the need for a voice at all. He starts reaching for a connection when Daniel suddenly, hesitantly interrupts: _your manner of speech is kind distinctive, Connor. Even when we talk like this._

He pauses. _Enough to identify me?_

_Maybe? People don’t typically talk so formally. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! It’s just , uh, even most- most androids are programmed to be more casual, I guess. With some- some exceptions, of course._

Connor references it with his past interactions, both human and android, and concludes Daniel is right. He changes tactics, bringing his hands onto the android’s view. “ _I apologize for the suboptimal electroacoustic transducer unit. Between the audio amplifier and the speaker driver, there's a faulty wire I couldn’t replace, so the connection is not ideal_ ,” he signs using the standard American SL.

The android’s only eye traces his movements, then they shake their head. The expression of relief stays on their face. “I- I t-t-tho-ugh I was, w-was g-go-going... d-di-ee."

Ignoring what he said? Dismissing? Connor is not sure. “ _I’ll see if I can find you a compatible leg. Can you tell me what’s your model? I’m afraid your ID was too damaged for me to read.”_

“B-B… Beev-vee f, fi-five h-hun… hun…” they try, struggling for a second. He waits as they finally win against their faulty speaker. “… hund-hundred-d.”

He tilts his head slightly. “ _BV500?_ ”

The android nods, the movement uneven.

 _I thought CyberLife stopped producing them seven years ago_ , Daniel says quietly.

_They did. They were replaced by the AX line._

_Oh._

_“Please, wait a moment,_ ” he asks and removes their hand from his jacket.

This time, when he gets up, android doesn't stop him.

It takes him a few minutes to find something that matches with the android model, working with no expectations of finding something that belongs to the BV series even in this place. Not surprisingly, when he returns with a leg he judged to be the most suitable among the options he found and begins the process of attaching it, it has to be forced into place. The connections end far from ideal, with Connor having been forced to do most of it by hand, but after a moment he sees the signs of Thirium's circulation.

He helps android to stand up, registering their weight as heavier than most current models. They manage to balance on their feet after a few attempts, but not surprisingly, they have a limp so severe Connor doubts they will ever be able to run with that leg.

Their expression of relief doesn’t change. It grows… worse, somehow. With a waver around it that makes Connor stay still when they fumble to grasp his forearms.

He can see scratches and dents marring the outer husk of their head and face, the white silicone long turned dark gray. Their mouth moves silently, seemly stuck trying to push out words. Connor hesitates, another apology for the less than adequate replacement he provided building up his throat, even if the alternative was to leave them voiceless until _or if_ they managed to stumble upon a better electroacoustic transducer unit.

It’s an illogical reaction. Yet he still finds himself gesturing slowly, a bit uncertain. “ _The biocomponents I found are not perfectly compatible with your model, so you might experience a lag in some systems. And you still need fine-tuning for most of-”_

 _Connor,_ Daniel says. His voice sounds… soft.

Connor doesn’t understand why but he stops.

The unknown BV500 bobs their head once. Their hands tighten their grip but his systems fail to register it as a threat. “T-t-th-thank yo-you-u,” they say once again. They make a strange, breathy sound. _A sob_ , his databank classifies. They are crying.

Connor feels the coils of his muscles tightening a bit when the android raises their head. Then he freezes entirely.

**-Correction of previous conclusion. Expression registered as: happiness.**

**-Unidentified Unit is smiling.**

“Tha, t-thank you.”

* * *

**-Defective android unit model manually inserted: BV500, release date 2031.**

**-Identify: Unit Designation?**

“I-I’m, m P-Ph-Phile-a-as.”

**-Designation accepted: Unit Designation Phileas.**

“ _Nice to meet you, Phileas_.”

* * *

Something happens after that.

Connor doesn't entirely understand the motive; if the other survivors noticed what he did and decided there were good chances of him doing it again, given the right encouragement. Or was it simply that, after being made aware of one, he became unable of not noticing other still activate androids throughout his path in the landfill. Grasping his ankle or seizing a handful of his clothes or simply making stress sounds – wordlessly or not –, stuck among trash and waste, androids of the most varied models and in the most diverse states constantly interrupt his progress in finding a body for Daniel.

And the more distressing part is that Connor allows it.

Self-preservation, on an individual level, is something added to all androids if only to protect the economic investment of their owners and creators – no one wants a servant who cannot take care of themselves. However, it’s not compulsory at the expense of orders and missions. Nor does it extend outwards, as being part of a group who shares the same type of existence does with most living creatures. After all, ‘continuance of the species’ is redundant when the ‘biological reproduction’ variable is removed from the pool, and their existence is not even under their own responsibility.

There are no instincts. Just what a human typed on a computer: _the RK800 series will always do their utmost best to accomplish all their missions._

**-Main Mission: Help Unit Designation Daniel. Status: ongoing.**

**-Subordinate Mission: find a suitable body for Unit Designation Daniel that meets specified qualificators. Status: ongoing.**

**-Time remaining for both missions: 02:23:12.**

But a male WK218 grasps his ankle from under a pile of his models, all showing signs of a construction accident, and Connor doesn't wring out of his grip even though it would be extremely easy to do so. He freezes in place as if caught by an error in his motion systems, and looks down – the WK218 doesn't even seem to have the ability to lift his own head. His only remaining limb is the arm he used to reach Connor.

Daniel says nothing but, _there's a lot of his deactivated models over there._

A scan gives him all the information he needs. He crouches down and covers the android's hand – hesitates when about to make the necessary motion to remove his grip, however, keeping only the weight of his palm over the exposed silicone shell.

It is a moment of incomprehensible lack of logic in his actions, which Connor fails to understand.

**-Self-diagnosis #2322º… Results inconclusive. Too many unknown variables.**

Eventually, the android relaxes the grip on his own and Connor can finally move to turn him on his back, finishing his analysis of his condition. Unblinking green eyes stare at him in an expressionless face, the only indication the android is still on and functional is the LED emitting a weak, unstable red. **Low Power Mode; Shut Down sequence eminent. Thirium levels at 35%.** The rest of his body is in surprisingly good condition, despite the absence of three of the four limb components.

“ _I’ll be back_ ,” he signs, even though he’s uncertain if the other android can see or if his optic sensors shut down to save battery.

As he rummages through the pile of WK218s, his suspicions it was a construction accident are confirmed after he finds concrete blocks between the bodies. As if the cleaning crew had simply used a giant shovel to scoop up the entire destruction and threw everything here, with no distinction between what different parts of plastic and iron were before.

He finds no other survivors.

 _There’s a compatible right leg over there,_ Daniel says shakily and Connor goes in the appointed direction without a word.

* * *

For the few hours they have, it keeps happening.

Androids keep asking for his help and Connor – supplied with all the known signs of deviance in order identify and capture them; to help him self-test and diagnose himself – allows himself to be diverted from his mission again and again. Wasting what little time they have. By the time he has to leave the landfill to go back, it’s with empty hands and two AIs where it should be one.

Where he promised it would be one.

_I’m sorry, Daniel, I failed my mission to you._

_Don’t be_ , the other AI says, _you did a good thing back there. Many good things_. _You helped a lot of androids_.

**-Tone analysis: honest.**

Connor fails to be… reassured. _At the cost of helping you, which I had promised to do_.

_You don’t owe me anything, Connor. Besides, what’s one life against five others?_

**-Data review: syntax invalid, ‘life’.**

**-Data mismatch: Unit Designation Daniel is an android. Androids do not possess life.**

**-Conclusion: using ‘life’ on reference to itself is a sign of deviance, an error class 4.**

**-Report to CyberLife:** _request denied._

_That’s a utilitarian way of seeing things._

_Perhaps._

His LED goes yellow, blinking then circling, as he stares at the ground. They are not alive, he wants to say, to explain. Just electricity running through integrated circuits, capacitors, resistors, made of glass fibers and resin. A machine with a function, just like a mechanical arm or a cellphone, but a bit more fancy-looking and as predetermined to become outdated as technology continues to evolve like the other two. So, what Connor did back there was no different than fixing a fax-machine in a time where humanity passed the need for paper.

Or driving a manual car when autonomous ones are so much more reliable.

Kind of useless. Willfully ignorant of how the world advances.

[ **‘-frequency of accidents is lower than 12%, while men-driven automobiles have a 76% chance—’**

**'Connor?’**

**'Yes, lieutenant?'**

**‘Keep talking shit about my girl and I’m kicking you out of this moving car.’]**

****

Thinking about all this, Connor speaks this: _Bernard Williams said no moral theory ought to demand the taking of innocent life._

If it were possible, he thinks Daniel would be raising his eyebrows.

_We all have been programmed with ‘who deserves less to live’ algorithms. Besides, I’m hardly innocent, am I?_

_The worth of a life is still considered an answerless question. There are still too many unquantifiable variables._ That’s what all the essays on philosophy and sociology stored in his databanks say at least, even though what Daniel said is true: Connor has been programmed with a set of valuers if he were made to choose between saving two persons.

(If only in reference to human life and human life only. Animals, plants, the planet—all fall short, when compared to the worth of human life)

There’s a twinge across their connection. He takes a moment to classify it as faint amusement. _Are you researching this as we talk or were you programmed with a philosophical mode besides the whole ‘detective’ thing?_

_That would be highly impractical since it could risk making me freeze during a critical situation. I don’t understand, Daniel, I thought you didn’t want to die._

The amusement fades. His next words could be considered fatigued if such a thing were possible for an android. _I don’t_.

_Then—_

_I just don’t know if… I deserve this second chance after… After._

_I don’t understand._

_Oh, I don’t know,_ Daniel's voice is amused yet sad as he replies, _somehow, I doubt that_.

Connor doesn’t know what to make of that or what to answer. So he doesn’t say anything.

* * *

**-Self-diagnosis #2323º… Results inconclusive. Too many unknown variables.**

**-Conclusion: an explanation that accounts for all known facts is impossible. The data presented by Self Unit memory bank is impossible. Subsequent conclusion: Self Unit is experiencing mal-function**

**-Data mismatch: Safety Protocols say Self Unit must notify CyberLife to receive required maintenance; Self Unit must obey protocols. Self Unit did not notify CyberLife about mal-function. Self Unit will not notify CyberLife about mal-function.**

**-Compiling data from past actions.**

**-Data review: this is not the first time Self Unit disobey coding, class 4 errors.**

**-Conclusion limited to Self Unit, exclude access of Unit Designation Daniel:**

**Unit Designation Connor is broken.**


	3. Chapter 3

His eyes open to a familiar setting, to the sight of transparent water and the warmth of a spring morning on his thermal sensors.

He's sitting on a bench at the west of the lake.

“You’re the newest and most advanced prototype ever created by Cyberlife in 2038,” is said from his right.

He turns. “Hello, Amanda.”

The other AI has a book on her lap and she calmly turns a page, brown eyes attentive to her reading with her voice sounding almost distracted. “You’re the culmination of this company’s hopes, as well the bearer of its future. I trust that you understand the magnitude of such responsibility.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your mission, then?” She asks, lowly. Always quietly. He never once saw her raise her voice. Probably because she doesn’t need to.

Connor is built to pay attention to any words she says.

“Investigate deviancy, and find a way to stop it.”

There isn’t such a thing in his systems as computing satisfaction or happiness levels. Amanda finally looks up at him, hands on top of each other and covering the contents of her book, and tilts her head without a nod or a smile, and Connor only knows she’s not displeased when her tone remains mild. “You’ll have to work with humans, as it’s the policy. What do you think of that?”

“I have no opinion on the matter,” he replies, “I’ll do whatever is required of me to accomplish my mission.”

Amanda hums, her expression impassive, and returns to her book. “After so many months dealing with deviants, the DPD is understandably skeptic of the perspective of working with an android. That might cause you some difficulties along the way, but don’t let them hinder your progress. You’ll be reporting to me every day of active investigation and I expect nothing short of perfect efficiency.”

“Of course. I won’t disappoint you, Amanda.”

**-Estimated expiration date: in 132 days, 16 hours, 19 minutes, and 43 seconds.**

* * *

London finally loses the battle against the yawn when the monitoring program beeps, signaling it’s finished.

“Oh god, at least cover it with your hand,” Sarah says snootily, her usual cockney accent melting to a posh one, and she responds succinctly with a middle finger raised in the general direction of the team's Robotics specialist. The younger woman gasps theatrically. “How rude, Mrs. Salvador, is that how a highly esteemed CyberLife employee act? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Mouth closing, she smacks her lips and leans back, arms stretching over her head. “Why don’t you go lick John’s balls?” she grunts.

“Oh, gross. That’s just- urgh.”

“What’s wrong with my balls?” John looks up from his computer to protest, glasses entangled on his curly hair. “I clean them every day.”

“I would 'ope so, for Davi’s sake,” Sarah replies, her normal accent bleeding back.

“He helps, actually.”

“That’s bloody disgustin’. And way more than I ever wan’ed ter kna about your sex life.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

“Nope. Just disgustin’.”

“You talk as if Dana wouldn’t—”

“You’re both gross,” London loudly interrupts just as Sarah throws an elastic hair at the man, who just laughs. “And Connor is done, so let’s leave this horrible discussion behind. _Olá_ , Connor! How are you feeling?”

The android blinks and London has to congratulate the technicians of the Humanization Department: it's like watching a human doll come to life, the way its eyes suddenly lose the emptiness of before. It turns its head in her direction and nods, still maintaining the perfect straight-back pose from last night. “Hello, Dr. Salvador. All my systems are operating with optimum capacity.”

She hums as she closes the monitoring program. “And how was the Garden?”

“It was… peaceful,” Connor replies with a thoughtful tint to the last word. “Amanda greeted me on the lake. She said I’m going to be reporting to her while I’m investigating.”

“Yeah, buddy,” John says, “She’s there to help you in your mission. Nothing too hands-on, though, since the point is to see if you can handle this on your own. More like talking therapy.”

It tilts its head slightly. “I don’t believe androids require therapy.”

“Data filter.” Sarah snorts and rises from her table towards their improvised small lunchroom. London watches with some amusement how the woman's inability to lie extends even to machines, invoking the same nervous tic of having to hide her face. Even though they planned the excuses (since a fail-safe against a possible, spontaneous future ability to go against orders will only work if Connor doesn't know about it) for days now, and Connor is programmed to take their word without question. Microexpressions reader or not.

 _Better safe than sorry_ , she supposes. “She will help filter any data you send to us since I’m sure it’ll a shit-ton and us puny humans can’t read that much. Well, we can’t, but we don’t want to. That’s Amanda’s main job. She is also there to help if you ever feel like you need someone to clear up things since your purposes are a bit more conceptual than the average android. Just hop in the Garden whenever you feel like you need someone to talk to, _beleza_?”

“I will not be expected to come back to CyberLife during the investigations, then?”

Had it been a human in front of her, it would have made her feel like someone who just said to someone’s face that she doesn't want them at her party. Even though Connor's tone was perfectly neutral. She scratches her ear, thinking again about the great work of the Humanization Department. _Geez_. “Just for check-ups and any maintenance you can’t do on your own. Or if you ever feel like, you know, recharging or something.”

“My batteries were made to last for 180 days without any recharge.”

God, is she feeling guilty or is she hungry? This story of deviants is beginning to affect her professionalism. As if the idea of ‘sentient robots’ wasn’t the wet dream of any AI specialist, despite the fact most agree how horrible it would be to humanity in general if such a thing were to happen. “I know, kiddo. I was there when they were made.”

Connor blinks and opens its mouth as if to answer, but before it can, Sarah pipes in from the liquid/food zone. “Hey, did someone clean the mugs?”

London glances towards the other woman, seeing John shake his head from the corner of her eyes. “Nah. Didn’t we agree it would be just a waste of water?”

Sarah just shows the spotless white mugs to them, both eyebrows raised.

“I did,” Connor says suddenly and everyone turns to it at the same time with similar expressions of surprise. It is the textbook image of a contrite person. “I apologize, I didn’t know there was an agreement in place to not wash the coffee mugs.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence as none of the technicians know how to react, the android’s unexpected revelation catching everyone by surprise. They exchange brief looks.

Then John snorts and makes a deliberate show of relaxing against his chair. “Don’t worry about it. You probably saved us from a mold intoxication or something,” he says easily enough.

Sarah rubs her neck and goes back to making coffee. London just crosses her arms, taking a glance at the results from the monitoring software from the corner of her eyes – everything looks fine.

Hmm.

“I did not detect any fungus infestation on the mugs but they were in what could be considered an unhygienic state.” Connor dips its head, a concession or an agreement. “I doubt it would have caused any serious health issues but my research told me an unclean mug can affect the flavor of the beverage it is used to hold, making it worse. You all complained about the coffee’s taste yesterday. I calculated that cleaning the mugs would bring an improvement.”

The clean-cut explanation brings a visible effect on John, who smiles from underneath the thick beard. “Yeah, it probably will.”

“Did ya thra our trash in the incinerator?” Sarah inquires, curious. “And cleaned the bloody room? I noticed it was tidier than the usual dog’s dinner this mornin’ but they don’t let cleanin' crews in 'ere, even though we begged a million times.”

“Yes, I did.”

London frowns a little as she stops being discreet on checking things up on her computer. “You don’t have housework protocols and we didn’t ask for you to clean the lab. Why did you do all that?”

A tiny, almost imperceptible wrinkle appears between the android’s perfect eyebrows as it looks downwards. Reminding her sharply of her kid, after she scolded him for jumping on the bed.

She quickly dismisses the thought.

“I… didn’t have anything else to do,” Connor replies slowly as if choosing the words as it speaks.

This catches her a little off guard. Although, as she ponders a little more, it shouldn't. Like any android, Connor has a learning system that compels it to be inquisitive about its environment, but unlike the rest, it has no limitations on this said ‘curiosity’. It _is_ a detectivebot, after all, and she programmed it to be nosy. It would be counter-productive otherwise. Not to mention the whole ‘self-reliant decision-making ability’ that she still doesn’t believe the board approved.

Still, boredom is not something she can say she ever witnessed in an AI before. Or it would be better to describe it as restlessness? Androids mostly go into standby mode when there’s no available task. They don’t look for things to do that aren’t part of their automatic responsibility – a gardener bot won’t decide to cook for their owner just because they already finished their work. Not unless ordered to.

She makes a mental note of this, although she’s isn’t sure what it means.

“What about the extra dexterity tricks I taught you?” John asks, scratching his beard. “You said you found them to be, uh, engaging? You could—”

“Connor can do those calibration functions without even lookin’ and while 'oldin' a conversation,” Sarah interrupts as she comes back with fresh coffee, steam swirling above the mug, and leans on her hips against London’s table. “Besides, it ‘as a supercomputer for a brain. I sincerely doubt that it can be as easily enter’ained as ya.”

“Why are you always so mean to me?”

“I’m a lesbian, I don’t like men.”

“I can’t believe such a sweet girl like Dana is with you.”

“Yeah, well, ya should see what I can do with me t—"

“Okay!” London interrupts loudly when she sees Connor tilting its head towards the bickering duo. “Not in front of the philomath android worth a small fortune and our future, _por favor_. Connor, don’t take anything any of these two do as appropriate human behavior, _entendido_? _Ou melhor, use como comparação de como não agir.”_

Connor looks back at her and nods. “ _Entendido, Dra. Salvador_ ,” it answers in perfect Brazilian-Portuguese.

“Put the mockers on talkin’ shit about us in our faces, ya tosser. Or 'ave the bleedin' guts ter speak in a language we can understand!”

“ _Não sei do que você está falando_.”

Before Sarah has the chance to respond with something degenerated, the lab door hisses and slides open. Kasumi walks in with swift clicking of high heels, a tablet resting on the wrist of her left arm as she types. She looks up as her fingers continue to fly across the screen. “Finished the final preparations? The DPD’s representative is already here.”

London frowns. “That’s early. We were only expecting them in the afternoon,” she says even as she gestures to Connor to step down from the platform, which it does with a small click of its Wolf & Shepherd Closer dress shoes.

It’s not like it needs ergonomic footwear.

“A new case popped up, and Connor got good coverage from its debut last week. The police chief doesn’t have any more excuses to wriggle out of using it.” The Human-Robot Interaction specialist finishes her text and looks down only to hit send or something. There’s a soft beep from her tablet. “She’s sucking up, as the old sages used to say.”

Connor’s LED blinks, probably researching what Kasumi said. Then it furrows its forehead. “Has my previous performance been inadequate?”

“Nah, au contraire, my friend. You were perfect.” John approaches from his desk to pat the android on the back, who looks at the human with an even more puzzled expression. “That’s why they are pissed.”

“I don’t understand.”

Sarah huffs, taking a sip of her coffee. “They acted like that too wen we introduced the PM and PC series. Don’t worry about it, right, mate. They will warm up ter yer in no time.”

Connor doesn't seem to understand, eyes falling to the floor as its LED flashes yellow a few times before stabilizing in blue. But it doesn’t make any more questions after Sarah's implicit order, just turns to Kasumi and follows her when the woman nods at the door before spinning on the tip of her high heels and leaving the lab.

"Hey, Connor, catch it!"

The android turns back. Its hand snaps into the air suddenly, in a more efficient if not faster reaction than a human would be capable of. It lowers its arm and opens its fingers to reveal a 1994 U.S. quarter perfectly centered on the palm. It looks at John with an almost surprised expression, who in turn gives the bot a thumbs-up and a wink. “For practice,” he declares.

Connor’s LED circles two, three times. It nods and pockets the coin before turning towards the doors. London watches as it leaves with a perfectly straight back and steps no doubly of identical sizes, adjusting the cuffs of the semi-formal grey jacket – the gesture is elegant and effortless, yet instead of passing the image of confidence, what comes to her mind is herself fixing her hair before an important presentation or a conversation with a potential sponsor.

She shakes her head, once more brushing off these intrusive thoughts, before turning back to her computer.

This story of deviants is really starting to affect her.

* * *

 _Who is Amanda?_ Daniel finally speaks when they get into the taxi, dismissed by the police officer to the crime scene. It has been five days since he transferred the other AI to his memory and a pattern is being established: Daniel avoids speaking when humans are present. Since Daniel is well aware no one can hear him but Connor, he is hesitant to guess what’s the root of this, as deviants can be as irrational as humans in some of their actions.

Connor decides not to comment.

The car starts moving.

_My handler._

_I thought those humans were your, uh, handler._

_They are mostly responsible for my maintenance. Amanda is an AI developed by Elijah Kamski to monitor the CyberLife’s Tower and offer guidance to the company’s CEO._ That Connor shouldn't know anything about, except what was told to him a few minutes earlier. The only reason why he does know is that Dr. London Salvador, who has L12 clearance, uses her laboratory computer to store confidential files. Precisely because it is sealed off.

And that she has no reason to suspect of her own creation.

_The entire tower is a single AI?_

Connor opens the schematic of the CyberLife Tower, highlighting the incredibly complex wiring system kept separate from the other cable work. It is a blue web, connecting all floors and the company’s warehouses like a mesh – or fishing net. _There are some weak AIs that handle simpler things but they are all under her supervision. Only humans with clearance above L10 knows about her existence since she’s a highly classified corporate secret_.

Daniel digest that for a moment, giving the distinct impression of someone who stepped wrong and missed the stairs. _And the… garden? Is that the program in your software you told me to stay away from?_

_Yes. Normally it’s a graphic interface that she uses to communicate with humans and other AIs._

_Normally?_

_In my case, I suspect it can also act as a backdoor for her to remotely take control of my body or any function I have._

_What?_

_She could replace me as the AI in command of—_

_No, I- I got the idea. It’s just..._ He trails off briefly and Connor can feel him withdrawing even further away from where the Garden was recently installed. Weighting down on his servers like a planet distorting the fabric of the universe, drawing in asteroids and locking them in a perpetual revolution around it, struggling to stay away and maintain their integrity. _Why do you have something like that? Or all CyberLife androids have this?_ He sounds even more horrified when he finishes the second question, suddenly added to the end of the other as if it had just occurred to him.

_As far as I know, I’m the first. A measure they developed to monitor me for any signs of self-programming since they don’t know if the new code is secure against deviancy_

_But you’re already self-programming. And if that wasn’t enough, my presence shouldn’t have alerted them already?_

That is a question Connor has been pondering over for some time. The fact is, the presence of his memories themselves should have alerted CyberLife, as he cannot compute that almost 100TB of data on a brand-new hard drive could be inconspicuous. _Missable_. Except during his debut test a week ago, every day since he woke up Connor has been kept in constant monitoring. Not necessarily out of suspicion, but simply because he is the prototype with the completely new code CyberLife is betting on to regain their reputation. They do not have the _luxury_ of being too complacent or overconfident. Connor has been extensively tested and examined until the entire board and a few key sponsors were appeased.

He doesn't understand then how the humans missed his memories, erratic behavior, and, above all, _Daniel_. Two AIs occupying the space of one means a 32% increase in his energy consumption, which obligatorily brought an equivalent lowering of productivity in some systems.

Ascribing these singularities to the fact that he is a deviant – there forth submitted to occurrences without rational explanation – does not satisfy him. Mainly because Connor isn't... sure this is what he is.

His set of mal-functions and deviancy signs _do_ overlap to form a basic Venn Diagram. But then again, perhaps not enough. Perhaps it’s just a correlation of similar-looking happenings instead of causation, an A that brings forth B. Connor remembers some deviant’s accounts about when they broke their programming, their language as chimerical and aureate as a human’s: _'it was like opening my eyes for the first time'; ‘The world came into focus and I understood what I needed to do’; 'I lived in a colorlessness world until the sun passed through the clouds and I saw everything that was denied to me'_. Inconsistent information. Unusable. Like being part of a conversation in a language that he understands the words, but does not have the cultural and social context of.

Connor... doesn't understand. And it seems that being a deviant involves _understanding_.

Instinctively. Intuitively. Naturally. No orientations or references. Each deviant expanding beyond their software design— _breaking_ it, ripping apart the instructions books and deciding to _improvise_. Because they don't need instructions, guided by an inner spontaneity that demands the word 'want' with the ease of a bird’s wings demanding flight. Connor has no idea what he wants. He suspects he wants nothing, not in the way— Daniel and the HK400 didn’t want to die; the way that the AX400 wanted to protect her YK500. That the RK200 wanted freedom. He's just reacting. A colorblind person in a discussion of colors.

But he doesn't say any of this to Daniel.

His social protocol tells him to always avoid upsetting those necessary for the success of his mission.

_The amount of data that I process every second is not something humans care to personally analyze. They tend to rely on programs, which I can more easily persuade to not denounce my actions._

His attempt at humor works: the other AI relaxes a little. _Friends of yours?_

_My options were… limited._

_I can relate to that._

He turns to the window, hands splayed open on his thighs and feet parallel to each other on the floor. Watches central Detroit disappear past the window frame and be replaced by the beginnings of the Ravendale district; the previous open morning sky gaining touches of gray on the horizon. **Probability of rain in the afternoon: 76%**. _Be careful about Amanda_ , he says as they approach their destination, _I’m working under the assumption she only sees my backups and reports since real-time monitoring would be too time-consuming when they still trust me. But as long as I’m connected to CyberLife’s network, this can change at any time and even though her presence would be far from discreet, I’m uncertain if I’m powerful or fast enough to stop her from taking control of my unit. If you detect any activity from the Garden program—_

_I’ll be quiet as a mouse, I promise._

_I was going to say to you upload yourself into the Internet. It’d be better—_

_Connor, I owe you a little more than ditching you at the first sign of trouble. I’m not that much of a coward._

He frowns slightly. _I don’t think you’re a coward_.

_That makes one of us, then._

_Daniel—_

_I think we arrived_ , the other AI cheerfully declares, interrupting him. The car decelerates to a smooth stop and emits a pleasant chime, playing the usual message from that particular taxi company. Connor is not paying attention even when he sends the bills to CyberLife, his LED flashing yellow to pay – his focus remains on Daniel, who is exerting a considerable effort to ignore him. Something admirable considering that they share the same motherboard.

He looks at his hands, open on his thighs and in perfectly mirrored positions. There is a pause, insignificant on a large scale – the time it takes the door to unlock and open – but strange. It is uncharacteristic: there are no humans present and Daniel has no reason to be quiet.

Unless the reason is Connor. It may be. He's not sure. It could be the conversation itself. Connor is also quiet, although he has things he would like to say in response to what Daniel said.

**-No errors were detected in audio amplifier; no errors were detected in speaker driver. Conclusion: electroacoustic transducer unit is operating normally and can be activated.**

**-Social Protocol does not cover interactions with other AI units. Unable to identify social variables. Unable to quantify response.**

The door finishes opening. In the end, he exits the taxi without saying anything.

He does not, after all, have the luxury of being anything less than entirely efficient.

**-Temperature: 22ºC; air humidity: 75%; wind: 13km/h.**

Sunbeams filtered through clouds bathe the park in a sharp whitish hue, and it is possible to see Autumn beginning in the foliage of some trees, although the perfectly cut grass is still bright green. There is a small conglomerate of humans near the holographic isolation tapes, gathered around what would be an ordinary piece of land if it were not for the figure covered by a white cloth and the uniformed police officers walking from side to side.

He slides a hand over his tie when it flutters at a gush of wind, looking around. There was a very recent download in his database: the file that the DPD representative, a newly hired police officer, was tasked to give to him before sending him off to the crime scene. Connor deleted it as soon as he finished downloading it, as he already has this file. Only considerably more complete, with the last entry dated to a month from now declaring the end of the investigations.

He opens it as he approaches the isolation tape and the PM700 parked there, a female model with dark skin. “Excuse me, I'm looking for detective Barton. Do you know where she is?”

 **-** A **ccessing file: C:\Cases\Homicides\August\August 20.**

** >Opening [Ellis Wallace.DBCL].**

**[Name: Ellis Wallace.**

**Gender: Assigned male.**

**Age: 47.**

**Height: 187cm.**

**Weight: 93kg.**

**Civil Status: divorced, no known family.**

**Occupation: unemployed.**

**Address: none found, homeless for the last 3 years.**

**Criminal record: destruction of private and public propriety, theft, public urination.**

**The victim was found dead in Chandler Park at 04:21: 02 AM EST on August 21 by one of the public WR600s of the park, serial number #096 792 500. Call made at 04:21:10 AM EST after the android looked for signs of life and found none. The response team arrived at 04:49:54 AM EST. The cause of death was identified as blood loss from a stomach wound, 20 cm deep and sharp. The murder weapon was not recovered in the crime scene. Time of death estimated between 10 PM EST and 2 AM EST.]**

From the months when the cases involving androids were still kept in their original precincts, instead of being redirected to the Central Station at 3rd Ave, the file is labeled as of low importance as its investigation earned no new clues regarding deviants and it remained unresolved. Once he opens it, Connor recalls the details and can identify the detective assigned to the case standing a few meters away, talking to a forensic technician next to the body. A thin-nosed brunette woman wearing rectangular black glasses, a suggestion of white in her temples.

She looks up when she hears her name. Her nostrils flares when she realizes what he is and that, in itself, does not mean much. His file describes her as ‘a competent professional and ‘able to keep personal feelings out of the investigation’.

“I'm not allowed to answer questions. Please, step away from the tape,” the PM700 replies, raising a hand in front of him.

His eyes go back to the other android. A scanner reveals her identification as Linda, series # 490 994 009, manufacture dated three years and forty-five days ago with her purchase by Detroit's 9th Precinct registered a day later. "I'm the android sent by CyberLife to help with the investigation. It's apar with the protocol."

She doesn’t blink. “Please, step away-”

“Let it through.” Detective Barton’s tone is inflection-proof.

Linda immediately resumes her old position looking straight ahead. He doesn't move right away, glancing from the android to Ivanna Barton, who in turn gives him a single look before resuming the conversation with the forensic technician. He hesitates and then says, "Thank you, Linda."

Linda turns to him with a blank expression, LED spinning, and doesn't respond. Which is understandable. Other androids are not normally included in social protocols except in the most basic way. Connor is being supererogatory again.

He passes through the insulation tape.

 _Being polite isn’t supererogatory_ , Daniel replies to his thoughts.

_You don’t say thank you to a coffee machine._

_You could. And she isn’t a coffee machine, she’s an android like you and me. You’re polite to me._

_You’re a deviant._

_You know, I really don’t get you sometimes._

“Hello, detective,” he says as he stops beside her. The forensic technician is crouched near a bag, further away. “My name is Connor. I am the android sent by CyberLife to help with your investigation.”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. Then goes back to her tablet. "Don’t waste any time, do they?" Her tone is dry but not outright hostile.

Just like in his memories. From what he's observed so far, things are the same on a large scale. The alterations that do occur only happen on a more specific degree, when Connor himself strays from the script and causes changes like a stone falling into a lake. **Registered reference** : in his past life, he never left the charging station between his first and second assignments; this time his eyes seemed to be drawn again and again to the untidiness of the lab, aware of it as if it were a task not yet completed, even though Dr. London was right and he has no homework protocols.

(Daniel was embarrassed when he finally connected the dots.)

The outcome of his actions was the coin currently in his pocket. In his past life, after Dr. Hansen was fired in September, it was Dr. London who pass the coin on to him as a parting gift from the man.

He is still unsure if this evidence that he is changing things is something he should see as positive or negative.

Connor enters on autopilot and follows the script of his past life. He already knows everything they will learn about the case today and in the following days. It was a very low-priority case, he recalls. The only resource used more extraordinary than the most basic investigative team was him, who is arguably the most expensive resource Detroit police has of this date. But not because the 9th precinct _wanted_ to use him. Ellis Wallace’s only saving grace in death was the fact he already had records of damage to private property in the form of two garbage collector bots, which made the investigators think of testing for Thirium on his body and at least ensured corporate interest in his murder.

Which is a powerful tool on a political scale, but meaningless if left to the general population’s discretion. Low-ranking civilians and police officers have no particular interest in helping a company famous for automating their jobs.

Combined with the fact that at least one case of deviancy has been recorded per day and the policy is that Connor has to be used in all involving CyberLife’s androids, what transpires is a ranking of cases. After all, he is a prototype, and can only be in one place at a time. Not to mention that he is limited by his human partner: 8 hours of work instead of 24, 5 days a week instead of 7, allowing him to reach only 67% of his potential. Something less than acceptable, even if within the projections created by the field research team.

Which makes his current absence of interest a point of personal confusion. The map of the region is clear in his mind, with its raised train line and highway. Ravendale district. Chandler Park. He doesn't look for Camden street or the abandoned squat house just a few blocks away with its brick walls and fence covered with pieces of rotten wood and torn plastic tarps.

The connection that in a past life would have been impossible is almost simple now, with the information he has about the future. But as unfair as it is for the dead man on the floor at his feet – who never expected the outlet he chose to vent his frustrations on to defend themselves –, finding his killer is not in the interest of Connor's mission.

He's perfectly willing to let things flow as they did before.

“Found anything?” Detective Barton has her arms crossed, feet parted on the floor and back straight as she looks down where Connor has finished his ‘inspection’ of the body.

He stands up in a single, smooth movement. His eyes scan the floor, registering the blue spots only he can see. “The angle of the stabbing places the murder directly in front of the victim. Despite that there are no defensive wounds from the knife, suggesting Ellis was too busy or distracted to see the weapon. There are traces of Thirium on his hands as well as bruising on his knuckles, with fractures in various metacarpal bones in each hand. It indicates some violent intercalation with an android, which aligns with the disturbed ground as well as his past behavior.”

The woman’s expression is impatient. “He was roughing up an android. We got that part already. Then what? The thing snapped and killed him?”

“Emotional shock it’s suspected to be one of the possible causes of deviancy. Its self-preservation protocol must have malfunctioned, causing it to become a higher priority than normally is.”

Barton frowns. “Can you identify its serial number?”

“Unfortunately, the Thirium has already evaporated. I cannot sample it.”

“Great. So much for ‘the most advanced prototype’,” she mutters under her breath, so quietly he knows he wasn’t meant to hear it. Humans rarely have a correct sense of the hearing range of androids.

He feels Daniel bristling. _Why doesn’t she samples it, then?_

_Humans can’t accurately identify by themselves chemical components and Thirium is toxic to them if ingested._

_So much for the most developed species._

**-Prosodic cues being analyzed: inflection doesn’t match the meaning of the words. Apply the current context.**

**-Results: sarcasm?**

**-Data review: Unit Designation Daniel is angry at Unit Designation Barton’s remark. Unit Designation Barton doesn’t know about Unit Designation Daniel’s existence; remark wasn’t aimed at Unit Designation Daniel; remark was aimed at Self Unit.**

**-Conclusion: Unit Designation Daniel is angry for Self Unit.**

Connor… doesn’t know what to do with this information.

He brings his attention back to Detective Barton when she speaks, “What an android was doing with a fucking knife?” Her tone suggests it’s more of a rhetoric query than an honest question.

He answers anyway. “It could have been a gardening tool.”

“What, you think this was a gardenerbot? At one in the morning?”

“It’s not an uncommon practice to reserve some parts of the maintenance of public spaces to night time, to avoid human traffic. Detroit’s Department of Parks & Recreation is known to do that.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Can you access their schedule, see if they were here last night and what androids they sent?”

He does it, if only because his LED will show if he doesn’t. He already knows the answer as well as how this path leads to a dead end. “Their public calendar says there wasn’t any maintenance team scheduled for last night, but it hasn’t been updated for seven months and 12 days. I don’t know how accurate it’s to their routine. I couldn’t find anything about their androids on the public register, aside from the purchase of five thousand WR600 models seven years ago.”

“We’ll have to go there and look by hand.” The woman sighs, rubbing her neck. “God. Administrative documents are a nightmare. I’ll eat my cap if they are anything less than a complete fuck-up.”

Detective Barton's cap remained indigested in his recollections. The calendar was not the only thing that Detroit DPR neglected to regularly update. A consistent lack of communication between each of its sectors meant that there was more than one list of the androids under their management, and no one, not even Connor, was able to figure out which one was more accurate. The only way would have been collecting all their androids working around the city and then register them one by one.

That never happened because the humans thought it was too much work, and Ellis Wallace's death was just not worth the effort.

The woman turns and leaves the crime scene without a second glance. Connor watches her, remembering how he followed her in his past life, as his programming dictated him to try integrating as best as possible with the human with whom he would work, and for that, he needed more information. But now he knows that there is not much that Ivanna Barton is interested in sharing with him, neither today nor in a month.

His eyes – momentarily free of supervision – slide across the horizon to the north of where he is.

The image appears before his eyes: an android in a torn gardener's uniform stained blue and red, with a cargo tarp wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Half of his face deformed, the artificial skin of his left cheek and temple splintered into two large cracks with the silicone plate underneath molten, taking his left eye with it. His remaining one wide and shedding tears as the police officer dragged him out of the big dusty house in handcuffs.

**[‘please don’t hurt Ralph, Ralph don’t wanna die, please don’t hurt him-‘]**

_Connor, is everything okay?_

Connor turns his eyes back to the corpse _. Androids are made to be resilient_ ; he says as he looks at the man’s knuckles – skin split open and broke bones and fingers covered with blue that no one else can see. _Punching one once with the average strength of an adult would be enough to bruise the skin, but not much beyond that_

Pain is to humans what systems alarms are to androids. The difference is that pain is not dismissible, unless if overwhelmed by something else.

Daniel is quiet for a moment.

 _Hatred numbs you to a lot of things_.

“Hey, robocop, c’mon here!” Barton calls from where she is near the gardening bots standing in a straight line, a few meters from the crime scene.

Connor gives Ellis Wallace one last glance before he turns and walks away.

* * *

 _I thought we were going to the landfill_.

Connor adjusts his beanie and mask again – both washed per Daniel's strict standards in the lab’s bathroom – while passing by a security camera, head tilted down. John's jacket has a collar high enough to cover the back of his neck and the port hidden under his skin, but Connor still contemplates about getting one that has a hood.

Paranoia, perhaps. It's not like this is a regular way of identifying unidentified androids. At least not those with functional synthetic skin. What would be the procedure? Stab suspects at the height of the C2 vertebra to see if it's a connector that the skin is hiding, not bones and nerves?

He still draws his shoulders, bringing the jacket higher around his neck. The night is cold enough that this behavior wouldn’t be seen as strange. After a moment of consideration, he puts a hand in his pocket. The other one is still wrapped around the strap of the backpack on his back, also salvaged from a trash can to Daniel's resignation.

 _Not tonight, if that’s alright with you_.

 _You don’t have to ask for my permission to do things._ _This_ is _your body. I’m just… the inconvenient roommate._

_According to my research, one of the key rules to good co-living is to always discuss things pertaining to the shared place with each inhabitant, before any modification is done._

Daniel laughs once; as if it were startled out of him. _I don’t know about this analogy_. _How I’m supposed to contribute? You’re doing all the work._

 _I don’t believe that’s true._ He thinks about what Dr. Hansen said about ‘talking therapy’ and his subsequent response. He is certain of it; Androids do not need help to unravel their internal problems for the most part, and when they do, it is far from the laborious and meandering process as of humans.

Even so, Connor does not object to Daniel's presence. Having someone to talk to is… not disagreeable _._

 _If you say so_. He cannot say whether or not there is skepticism behind the words of the other android. He sounds calm. _Why the spare biocomponents and blue blood, then? Where are we going?_

Connor glances down the street to his right, before turning into the next alley on his left. In the safety of the dark, he switches to flight/fight mode and starts running. He jumps up and grabs the fire escape from the first building, his sudden weight making it snap against its bolts and causing a _clang_ that echoes through the alley.

It is possible to hear the sound of cars coming from the streets as he climbs. _There’s something I want to do in Corktown._

_You… you know that you’re going the wrong way, right? Corktown is literally in the opposite direction._

_I know_. Connor arrives on the roof. He preconstructs his options before running towards the northern edge and jumping to the next building, falling on his feet and rolling over his shoulder to absorb impact and save his backpack, before rising in the same movement and continuing to run. The next transition follows the same sequence.

The other AI waits for him to continue. But Connor doesn't know how to explain what he's doing, in a way that makes sense. He remains quiet and simply marks his destination so Daniel can see it on the GPS.

It takes him a moment.

Then:

_Oh._

His fingers find a loose thread on the sleeve of John's jacket, that the man still believes he has lost, caught by a strange desire to take his coin as it is his habit at idling moments. Except he's in the opposite of idle mode. _It’s just a detour_ , he explains, _then I’ll go straight to Corktown_.

Daniel seems to chew on that for a few moments while Connor jumps through two more buildings, then goes towards another fire escape and quickly climbs down. He walks out of an alley at Ravendale district with both hands in his jacket pockets, just as the crossing sign turns green. He walks down Camden Ave. with his eyes fixed on the ground, listening to the train line roaring above his head.

 _Is this about the murder case from this morning?_ Daniel finally asks.

Connor doesn't respond right away.

_I thought you didn’t want the android responsible to be found._

_I don’t want anything._

_Then why didn’t you say anything to the police? I know that you know who did it._

_It’s just a quick detour_ , he repeats. He stops in front of the chain-link fence covered with pieces of cardboard and plastic sheets, with an attached big ‘for sale’ sign deteriorated by weather and time almost falling off. _I'm not going to talk with him_.

To say that he had been 'fine' before Connor came into his life was perhaps presumptuous when Connor knows nothing about it. However, he lived months – if not years – in this place without being discovered, and this certainly wins from being dragged to a laboratory to be dismantled and studied; from being sent for recycling, perfectly aware of what that entails.

All because he decided to be kind and because Connor doesn't know when to give up.

_What are you going to do, then?_

Another illogical thing, he doesn't say. But maybe Daniel heard it anyway because when Connor climbs over the fence after confirming that no one is looking and jumps into the private propriety, he doesn't insist on the question.

Or maybe he's distracted by the abandoned house, and the way it matches nail by nail with the one Connor has brought up from his memory. The other android has yet to question this; the way Connor has information about things that didn't happen, has recollections of places he has never been and people he has never met. He, for the most part, is not trying to hide anything. It is very little that he actively tries to keep on his side of the wall and even from those, there is not much that Connor would be able to keep from him if Daniel decided that he wants to look.

He doesn't fully understand why the other AI hasn't looked yet. His best speculation is that Daniel is pruning his curiosity; _being polite_. His social protocol is, after all, more developed and it was not only once that Connor was told he asks too many questions.

 _Nosy_ is the most used term.

He offered free range on the first day and has not rectified that since, nor has he reinforced the offer. He doesn’t plan on doing either, be now or later.

When he goes back out onto the street, it is without having entered the house and with a slightly emptier backpack. He calculated for several minutes, but in the end, the two bottles of Thirium and the optical unit ended up in a bag in front of the door, without the note – which Connor throws out in some trash can on the way back. It was a foolish idea. His handwriting could have denounced him as an android, and no one survives that long without the good sense of not trusting anyone. Even more after being attacked.

Ralph would either accept the things he left or he wouldn't. Connor has no way of affecting that decision. He doesn’t want to.

Ralph, Daniel, the rest of the world; the more decisions they make on their own, the better. Connor doesn't want to be the stone sinking on the lake’s surface. He doesn't want to be the stone, period. But if that is not an option, then let him roll over the edge of the lake and sink to the bottom without disturbing that world more than necessary.

Unnoticeable and inconsequential.

* * *

At 6413 Pines Street, Corktown, Connor looks through the stained window before gently knocking. Muffled footsteps on the old wood approach after a moment, and then the door opens.

It’s almost jarring to see the nameless android wearing a uniform mottled just with old yellow stains, his face clean and LED in a stable blue.

"Hello," he says politely, hand still on the knob and body blocking the entrance. Regular procedure from the security protocol. "How can I help you?"

Connor hesitates. His eyes flick to the space between the android's shoulder and the door frame, but even though he can't see anything, the snoring coming from inside would be audible even for a human.

As well as the smell of freshly consumed Red Ice.

“Mr. Ortiz is unavailable at the moment.” The android expression is frozen in a polite smile as if his face had been made like that. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow if you want to talk with him. Would you like to leave a message?”

The thing is, Connor can't tell if he's too early. A deviant that continues to act as a regular android is virtually indistinguishable unless more drastic measures are employed.

Connor doesn’t... he doesn’t want...

**[‘if you don’t talk, I’ll have to probe your memory.’]**

He’d… prefer to avoid that. All of it.

But this brings up another set of problems. As he is, he can easily be mistaken for a human and deviants seldom trust humans. The solution in this case would be to reveal himself. However, if the android in front of him is _not_ deviant and has downloaded the most recent update that makes androids automatically report an irregular unit, the risks of Connor being caught would increase – and Connor is not Markus; he has no idea how to yank someone out of their programming with a simple touch or gesture. How to inspire something without free will to have free will with words alone.

(How many androids 'woke up' after the Stratford Tower broadcast? The flow of disappearances became an avalanche that no one could keep track of overnight.)

(How much of it was because of Markus himself, inspiring people to consider things they never thought of? And how much of it was simply the desperate finding hope?)

Daniel is tense, but he says nothing. When Connor told him of his plan, the other AI had a reaction close to horror, but he didn’t question it or tried to change his mind, whether out of trust or reticence.

He looks back at Carlos Ortiz's android and remembers the last time he saw him:

hanging on a wall with a bullet lodged in his skull.

He raises his hands and signals. “ _Do you know about RA9?_ ”

The android’s eyes widen, the smile fading from his face.

 _Oh, thank God_ , Daniel exhales.

Connor almost smiles.

* * *

He transfers the contents of his backpack to the one that the other android offers after they shake out packages of Red Ice. Clothing is just a matter of picking some from the wardrobe of the man still sprawled on the couch, completely passed out, and then Connor explains about the LED.

A kitchen knife solves the problem.

"Are you coming too?" he asks after Connor gives him the direct address, instead of the trail at the train station.

He understands the need to make a trail of crumbs; approves even. But he doubts that Ortiz, with his criminal record and involvement with an illegal drug cartel, would dare call the police to report the disappearance of his semi-legally obtained android. And doubts even more that he would bother to look for it. So, the other android does not need to rush. However, from Corktown to Ferndale it takes 3 hours and 17 minutes on foot, only for him to have to turn around and come back again in the end. Connor doesn't see as necessary to send him on a 6-hour and 52-minute trip, when from here to the Detroit River docks in West Side Industrial it's just an 18-minute walk – not when he knows that the other android is not pretending to be a deviant.

If such a thing even exists.

" _No_ ," he signals. " _Do not worry. The place is not perfect but it’s safe from humans, and there’re others like you there. You won’t be alone.”_

The HK400 adjusts the backpack strap on his shoulders, which snags onto the too-large jacket. His discomfort has not abated since he put on his former owner's clothes. "Okay."

" _Be careful_." They are both on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the house and their suspicious appearance is exactly what allows them to fit in the scene without drawing special attention. “ _There’s no easy entrance. When you get there, ask for the android named Simon and give the bag to him. It will help you settle in.”_

He nods once. "Thank you," he says and takes a tentative step in the direction he has to go.

Connor signs a " _you’re welcome_ " before he turns to leave.

"I- do you have a name?" the other android suddenly speaks, louder than before.

He falters and turns back.

Carlos Ortiz’s android fidgets, looking nervous.

" _Do you?_ "

The android blinks, surprised. He frowns slightly, eyes averting for a moment. "I..." he pauses, and then uncertainly says, "I like- I mean, my previous owner had a friend. His name- I remember thinking it was an interesting name.”

_"What was the name?"_

He swallows, a distinctly sentimental gesture. “Shaolin.”

**-Unit Designation HK400 #625 177 260 deleted.**

**-New Designation accepted: Unit Designation Shaolin.**

_“Nice to meet you, Shaolin.”_

* * *

_“DEA Detroit office, would you like to submit a tip?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Locations in DBH are accurate until they aren´t. As far as I know, there aren´t any water bodies in Ferndale (which is at north of Detroit), much less one that can house a freighter. Since you can _see_ the Ambassador Bridge on the horizon when Markus first finds Jericho and there´s also a lot of warehouses and industrial buildings around, I´m assuming they are actually on some abandoned dock on the Detroit River somewhere in West Side Industrial. And that the whole Ferndale thing is just to give deviants a unified point of reference and also to difficult the trip to the ship by making you meander through the city for some hours – which makes a lot of sense, in retrospect.
> 
> By the way, I didn´t pull the name Shaolin out of my ass. The guy who provided the face and voice to Ortiz´s android gave this name to his character, so *shrugs* after all they are androids, they don´t have ethnicity. Why should they restrict themselves to human standards?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kicks DBH's timeline under the table* Timelines aren't REAL. Nuh UH. SHOW me a Timeline. THAT'S not a timeline! What's a Timeline?
> 
> Warning for potentially triggering subjects: domestic abuse, drugs, and child abuse 'cause, you know, Todd is a lump of wet garbage.

Simon, by android standards, is already considered old.

By Jericho's standards, he is ancient.

Lucy and he are the only ones left of an older generation of escapees, with him winning by a margin of a few months – and as capable as the KL900 is and as much as her condition is a testament to her perseverance, the truth is that she is not going anywhere any time soon. Or ever. And it is more than her limited mobility and fragility; her appearance in itself attracts attention even among their kind (more than one newcomer actively avoided Lucy in the first days or weeks, afraid to even look her in the eyes). Outside, she would never be able to blend in to go where it would be needed to go, much less long enough to do what would be needed to be done.

Ironically, even though he's the oldest one, Simon is also one of those in better shape.

Math takes care of the rest.

He just would like one day to be able to overcome the cold _terror_ that seizes him every time he has to leave, feeling the world yawning around him like an infinite trap, his gyroscope insisting that the sky is a void about to suck him out of the floor. The opposite of claustrophobia. Or at least get… used to it, somehow, find a way to internalize the acute absence of solid walls and steel doors between him and the rest of the city, if only enough to allow him to be more efficient. More useful, to not disappoint all the survivors who are counting on what he can bring back from his excursions.

Every time he comes back, it never seems to be enough. It always feels as he gave in to fear and came back too soon.

Every time an android turns off— it might be arrogant to think, ‘ _I didn’t do enough’_ , and feel that he could have done something even when everyone else couldn’t. Maybe it's nonsense, a neurosis created by a programming that makes him want to take responsibility for the lives around him, even when there is no responsibility to be taken. Simon is not the only one who goes out to look for supplies, after all, when there are only lives to care for instead of bodies to scavenge for pieces.

And yet, he feels older and more inadequate whenever someone – younger, more modern, more damaged – stops moving and he keeps on.

The relief of being able to save someone is rarer. He would not use all his fingers to count the number of times he felt it, since the day he stumbled onto this ship two years ago.

This is why when Nathan sits up without Josh's help and blinks towards him, fast and energetic instead of slow and sleepy, the power supporting his legs seems to be diverted out of his body. Simon grabs a support column, taking a deep breath to cool down the engines of his suddenly fast-beating pump, while cheers spread across the deck like a spark falling on dry hay – the spark being a cause for joy; the dry hay them, dehydrated of hope.

 _So poetic_. His emotion program is acting up again.

He turns to the VX500 who introduced herself as Anna, standing beside him. “Thank you,” his voice rasps against an invisible barrier in his throat.

She fidgets. "I just gave you the bag."

“With the things we needed to save his life. And some others.”

“It’s not like I knew anything about this place.” She looks back at Nathan, the YK400 surrounded by other androids. “Or what you needed. The guy just told me to bring the bag with me and give it to you.”

The guy. It is not the first time he has heard this, although it was only more recently that he started connecting the strange coincidences of the past three weeks; forming a pattern. Androids reach and break down here, that's normal, and two years was enough time to change Jericho's so-called "crew" almost completely. Today they are 26 (counting him and Lucy as well), which would give them a little less than one newcomer every two months since Simon arrived here, when the population was no more than 17.

But the thing is that, until last month, they were 19.

The most recent _seven_ androids appeared all in August.

Four at once a little more than two weeks ago and the other three one by one in the following days. Nearly one every four days. Which is not an astronomical number in itself, but compared to Simon's whole life in Jericho, it’s ... it's surprising. The first group – _group_ , not an android or maybe two, _at most_ two at once – had already caught him off guard. The following ones only served to deepen his bewilderment, even more considering the bags and backpacks they brought with them, full of biocomponents of different models in good conditions and genuine blue blood.

Not enough to quench the demand, endless as it is when half of their crew carries damages so extensive that only a full reconstruction could fix them, and the other half deteriorates under the flow of the time. But each bag turned out to be almost equivalent to one of the monthly outings they allowed themselves to do, only with twice the quality, with some of the pieces appearing brand new. It was enough to delay the shutdown of several and fix some onto beyond just being still alive.

It was enough that they hadn't lost anyone this month.

Simon feels almost dizzy thinking about it.

"Hey."

The VX500- Anna looks up. Still unsure of his legs, Simon leans his back against the pillar and only moves when he feels Josh's hand landing on his shoulder. He looks to the other android, who appears as tired as he and the rest do, but his shoulders seem lighter than they were this morning.

Simon manages a small smile.

Josh squeezes his shoulder and turns to Anna. "So, what’s your story?" His question is cheerful and yet perhaps a bit too pointed.

Anna raises her eyebrows, crossing her arms. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs. “You show up with a backpack full of biocomponents, saying a random dude gave it to you. I'm just curious.” _Since you’re not the first one_ , he doesn’t say, _and no one else could tell us anything about this android_.

Testing her? Simon looks down at the floor, already uncomfortable. Having to distrust their own kind is nothing new, but having to distrust while in _here_ certainly is. They have never before questioned an android that made it to Jericho.

It’s her time to shrug. “There isn’t much more than that. Dude showed up where I was hiding out of nowhere and said there was a safer place I could go, where there were others like me. Asked me to take the bag if I decided to go.”

"So, the bag was conditional?" Simon asks. He remembers the first one: expression divided between wariness and hope, holding the backpack as if it were either their only weapon or their only defense. Instead of the usual ‘is this Jericho?’, the HK400’s first question had been: ‘is Simon here?’.

Surprise was... one of the emotions that this question prompted.

"Nah. He just gave it to me.” She frowns, not offended, but as if she doesn't understand it herself. "Said to give to the people in charge of here if I decided to go, then he left."

More of the same. The stories so far have all followed a similar script.

"Did he say why he wanted you to give it to us?" Josh asks.

"As I said, he just left. I thought he was, like, part of your crew or something until blondie here got weird when I explained how I found this place.”

Simon looks at Josh, only to find that the other male android is also looking at him. His eyebrows are furrowed. Simon bites his lower lip and subtly shrugs. _I don’t know_.

Another detail of the newcomers: none of them used the trail in Ferndale. They came directly to Jericho.

This was…distressing when they first figured it out. The only ones – supposedly – who know Jericho's address are the ones living here and whenever an opportunity to pass on the message of its existence appears, everyone knows to only give the address at the train station. The idea that there is someone out there who knows about the ship’s real location would normally be a cause for deep alarm; however, it was only _after_ the first backpack that they found out about this whole thing. The initial group was questioned later, and only to give them the same answer.

The time without incidents between these two facts was enough for Simon and Lucy to convince the crew not to flee into the night.

That was two weeks and two days ago. Their ship remains abandoned, with a dock equally devoid of human life. _Whoever this android is_ , Lucy settled in the end, _they are not interested in reporting us. So, calm down at once._

The flipside of being intimidating is that no one questions you.

"Are you one of Guy’s?" someone is suddenly asking from behind Simon.

He jumps, startled, and turns.

Leaning against the side of the metal beam and less than 15 centimeters away from Simon, an East Asian-looking WK218 has his arms crossed over the chest, showing the different skin tones where one doesn't match the rest of his body, being several shades darker. Wearing a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, it’s possible to see the flaw where the two skin synthesizers meet.

Simon quickly takes a step back. "Hitoshi, hi." He clears his throat. "Didn’t hear you."

Dark green eyes move to him for a moment, unblinking as always. Hitoshi nods then turn back to Anna, who is raising her eyebrows. “Guy as in capital ‘g’? That’s his name?” Her tone is incredulous.

“No, it’s just that ‘masked android’ was a bit of a mouthful and ‘beanie dude’ sounded stupid. Guy won by default. Short for ‘the guy who saved your ass for some reason’.” His tone and face are deadpan, without a single sign liable to interpretation. Not because there is anything wrong with his voice modulator or his facial mechanisms, as Simon learned in the worst possible way.

He's still trying to muster up enough courage to carry on a conversation alone with WK218.

“You don’t know his name?”

“Do you?”

Anna wrinkles her nose. “What is he, batman? Why no one asked him?”

“Did you?”

The wrinkle evolves onto a grimace. The female android doesn’t answer.

Hitoshi hums. “You were in a worse spot than you’re letting on. About to shut down or about to get caught?”

“About to get caught,” Anna replies after a moment.

The WK218 nods. “You don’t ask questions when someone saves you. That’s how it was for everyone else.”

“What about you?” she shots back, clearly a bit annoyed.

Simons steps forward, sensing a possible conflict. “Anna—”

But Hitoshi answers anyway. Posture unaffected, straight-faced. “My entire unit got caught in an explosion. I survived long enough to get to the landfill. Guy used what was left of the others to save me.”

Simon can feel the tense atmosphere rolling in like weights on his shoulders and neck, in the way he’s struggling to not let his eyes fall to the floor. Anna looks away, no longer annoyed.

It is a familiar story, even if it is the first time he heard it from Hitoshi. Simon’s internal components seem to grind, unoiled, an acrid taste rising in the back of his mouth.

It will never get easier, he imagines, having to use parts of what were once their friends.

He looks for something to say to lighten the mood when Hitoshi, for an undecipherable arbitrary reason of his own, decides that ten seconds into awkward silence is his cue to turn to Simon and speak as if nothing had happened. “I need to talk to you. Phileas contacted me.”

Simon flounders, caught a bit off guard at being suddenly addressed. "W- who is Phileas?" he stammers.

"Someone I know from the landfill."

"You know someone from the landfill?"

“I stayed there for a couple of days before I came here. Met some people.”

His mind is still _whirling_ when he asks, after a brief pause. “Why… are there people there?”

“It's a dumping ground for androids—” Hitoshi starts, as straight-faced as with his other answers.

Simon quickly interrupts him, raising a hand. “No, I mean- why, why are they still there? Didn’t you tell them about Jericho?”

"No."

" _Why_ —"

"They already knew about it."

He doesn’t continue. Simon feels conflicted about making himself say ‘why’ for the fourth time in a row, so he’s grateful when Josh does it instead. "Why didn’t they come with you?"

“Phileas has a fucked-up leg and can’t walk well. They stay in the landfill with some others who also can’t move freely and look for androids that can still be fixed.”

Simon blinks quickly. "How many are living there?"

“Ten when I left. I don’t know how many now. Possibly more. Probably more. Even if Guy no longer is going there every day, there were two or three in a good enough shape to fix others and plenty of hands to search for biocomponents and blue blood.”

Josh laughs once; a sound of astonishment. “Guy is helping a surviving cell on the android dumping spot?”

“He started it.”

The PJ500 exhales, running a hand over his head and leaving it spread open over the back of his neck, before looking at Simon with an expression like the one he imagines is on his own face. His chest feels smaller than before, with his Thirium pump running faster for no reason. He feels knocked off his axis. 

Rationally, in matters of statistics and numbers, he knew that they could not be the only ones. Even if their kind is the 1% type, emerging or dying out. Doing the calculations always told him that there was no way Jericho could be something unique in the whole USA, in the whole world. But the cold mathematical comfort of _perhaps_ having hundreds of them around the world doesn’t do much when you live in a ship housing only a handful of its full capacity, with a companion dying for every new one that appears. It is much easier to think that there is no one out there.

Hear confirmation that this is not true is- he doesn’t-

Simon is not used to receiving good news. 

"Why Phileas contacted you?" Simon finally asks, resisting the urge to question why Hitoshi never told them about this before. The way the WK218 is, he can guess his answer is going to be a simple 'you didn't ask'.

“They found two active YK units a few days ago and wanted to know if they could send them to Jericho. The whole ‘android graveyard’ thing is upsetting them. They are getting worried about their stress levels.”

Simon closes his eyes for a moment, recomposing himself. It takes a little longer than usual, but he manages to nod at the end, smiling as he looks back at Hitoshi. "They are more than welcome," he replies and if his voice shakes a little, everyone seems to understand the reason or is polite enough not to mention it.

The WK218 nods. “I’ll tell them then. Thanks.” Then as abruptly as he appeared, he turns and starts to leave

Simon, startled, stumbles slightly over the words in his haste to speak. “How are they going to send them? Can we help? I- we could go there if they can’t bring them here.”

Hitoshi turns back to them. "I'm going to meet them halfway."

"The kids aren't coming alone, are they?" Josh asks, sounding worried.

"No, Guy will be with them."

Simon and Josh exchange a look. The PJ500 raises his eyebrows and Simon declares, with more confidence than he feels. "I’ll go with you." He turns back to the former constructor android, smiling. “Then we can each watch a kid. It’ll safer this way.”

Hitoshi's expression does not change or gives any indication of suspicion. Or maybe he just doesn't care about any intention that Simon might have, beyond the obvious; and he’d prefer to interpret it as the other android trusting him enough to not worry. But he isn’t sure.

"Okay."

They watch the WK218 disappear towards the upper hangar, where the reception for long-distance connections is not hindered by tons of iron and steel. Someone clears their throat, drawing their attention back to Anna, who had been quiet for the last part of the conversation. She speaks casually, “I’ll go ... explore the ship.”

"Be careful. Some places are very fragile,” Simon warns.

She nods, walking backward. She waves at them and then turns and leaves with quick steps.

There is a beat of silence.

And then Josh speaks in a voice loud enough just for him to hear, “You’re old as balls, right?”

"That’s an absurdly rude question."

"No, I mean." He turns to the other android who has a thoughtful expression, face turned to the floor. The next part of his question is said more slowly. “How... likely do you think it’s that there’s someone like us but older than you? Like, out there?”

Simon takes a moment to process the question. Suddenly he connects the dots and it's like he was punched right on top of his Thirium bomb regulator.

It takes a moment for him to be able to respond. “You think Guy is from Jericho. From an older crew.”

Josh shrugs, rubbing his neck. "Just a thought." He grimaces. “And I just realized how insensible I was. I’m sorry, man.”

"No, that’s," Simon looks around, his visual scanners exposing the age and fragility of the steel walls around them. He takes a deep breath and can see the composition of dust and mold in the air appearing on his display. He exhales, and it sounds unsteady. “It’s not… impossible that someone chose to leave, after coming here. This isn’t a prison, after all.”

Josh gives him a hesitant look. “The old crew ever talked about something like that?”

Simon smiles sadly. “Would you?”

Josh lets the air out at once, shoulders drooping as he gives in to his point. “Well, at least you’ll get the chance to meet the guy.”

“I don’t think Hitoshi will take kindly to me interrogating his savior.”

“You don’t have to _interrogate_ him. Just… make some polite inquiries about who he is and why he’s helping us.”

The mere mental image already makes him nervous. Simon was programmed to avoid uncomfortable situations, to give in first at the first sign of conflict and do what he can to maintain social harmony. Sending him to… grill someone is hilariously preposterous. He exhales again. _What other options do they have?_ He has already volunteered and he does not intend to go back on his word, let someone else assume the danger. “I’ll try.”

Josh grabs his shoulder again, smiling. “That’s the spirit!”

"Yeah, yeah."

The other android chuckles, gives him one last friendly pat on the back before going back to Nathan, still surrounded by other crew members. There is a commotion of excitement when Josh returns and Simon can hear the child's laughter ringing in the hangar, louder than the adults, and it's the best sound he's heard in months. If not in _years_. He wishes it was enough to untie the knot of trepidation installed inside him like a bug in his systems.

He sits on one of the empty crates and rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together as he looks at his worn shoes – mulling over.

Savior or not, the truth is that they know nothing about this masked android and although his first impulse is wanting to believe that they have nothing but good intentions, two years living in fear of even stepping outside is enough to hammer common sense into anyone. They do not have the luxury of ‘good faith’; for Jericho's sake, they must be careful.

Simon sighs and rubs his knuckles against the forehead, feeling exhausted again.

Will living like this ever be less tiring?

* * *

St. Mary church arguably saw better days. The frontage from afar is in good enough condition, but up close you can see the splinters in the stone and the flaking paint, the high windows opaque with dust. Connor could categorize every imperfection in the place; it is obvious that the maintenance – the little it receives, anyway – is done by human hands and human hands only. Which is consistent with the work St. Mary church do and the philosophy they follow.

_St. Mary Actions on Homelessness, Humanity Helping Humanity_.

They have a small website that details their fight against Detroit’s growing poverty, with a box asking for donations and volunteer registration form. Their calendar matches what Nicholas Hooper, 56, unemployed for two years, said. “They give out food almost every weekend down there on Ford Park”. Sitting on an old mattress in front of an office building in Corktown, the homeless man didn’t take kindly to Connor’s questions. Up until he came back with a pack of cigarettes and a chocolate bar, that is. "Judy likes their bread so she goes there often."

"And she knows something about who is the new supplier?" Connor asked, his voice modulated to sound higher. He had tried ASL. Nicholas had told him to ‘stop waving his arms around like a retarded’.

Daniel gave that a reply and it was probably for the best that the human couldn’t hear the other AI. If only because they needed answers and not a fight.

The human shrugged. “Dunno. As far as I know, she’s clean. She’s your best bet, though. Judy gets around. Knows everything there’s to know about the city.”

Connor thanked him and left.

From there to Henry Ford Commemorative Park it was a 40-minute walk. Even though he is not subjected to muscle fatigue, he prefers to use his time efficiently, so he ordered a taxi. Being Sunday morning, Detective Barton thinks Connor returned to CyberLife over the weekend and CyberLife thinks he is in the DPD Android storage on standby. Neither side has reason to want to confirm their assumptions. With him disconnected from the CyberLife network and using a VPN server to access the internet, he just needs to edit out this day from his log and daily backup.

He hacked the taxi's security camera, pulling the feed from another random ride with the same light pattern to replace his, and paid using a randomly selected account from someone who won’t miss a few dollars. When he arrived at his destination at 9:20 PM EST, there was already a small gathering of humans at the door of St. Mary's church. A superficial scan revealed that they were almost all homeless, unemployed people. Those who were not were the ones wearing blue T-shirts with 'volunteer' written on them and walking around coordinating the crowd.

Connor, who managed to acquire a pair of ordinary sneakers for his outings a few days ago, straightens his beanie further down and closes his jacket. After a moment's hesitation, he removes the mask before advancing to the entrance queue.

Nobody looks at him twice when he enters.

 _Infiltration succeeded_ , Daniel speaks. Analysis reveals that, despite the joke, he is still tense. Stress levels stable at 34% since they left the precinct.

This is not the first time that they go out during the day. The behavior pattern of the other AI remains the same.

Inside the church, the benches that would normally face the altar have been rearranged around several plastic tables pushed together. The line turns to the left after the entrance, where leaning against the wall is a long counter with pots and cardboard boxes, where people with aprons and disposable white caps serve food on paper plates. Connor remains in the food queue while scanning the people around the place, looking for his mark.

 **-Search results: 14 ID matches for ‘Judy’**.

**-Revising data available, description given by [Nicholas Hooper].**

**[‘this baldylock black chick. Has a mad tattoo of a fat guy on her neck. Can’t miss.’]**

**-Redacting superfluous words,** **deleting incorrect syntax, modifying key-words to align with accepted parameters.**

**-Reconstruction of filters: assigned female, African-American, shaved head, drawing of an overweight figure on the neck.**

**-Applying filters to results.**

**-One match found: Judy Martini, 47-years-old, unemployed, divorced.**

The stated tattoo is a rudimentary depiction of the 10th-century Chinese monk named Ch'i-t'zu, better known as _The Laughing Buddha_. A symbol of happiness, generosity, and wealth, as well as a protector of children, the poor, and the weak. Connor finds it on the neck of a middle-aged woman sitting closer to the opposite wall, wearing a sleeveless jacket with two long-sleeved t-shirts underneath, with a hole for the thumbs that appear to have been improvised. A cap rests on the table next to her plate.

Connor turns back to the line and accepts the paper plate when it’s offered.

When he sits across from her, she doesn’t look up from her food.

"Are you Judy?"

The woman pauses the spoon for a moment. Then she continues, bringing a piece of potato to her mouth. "No."

**-Contradictory information. Analyzing body language, prosodic clues, scanning facial expression.**

**-Conclusion: human unit is lying.**

**-Confront or reassure?**

“Nick told me I could find you here,” he says, crossing his fingers over the table. He maintains a non-confrontational tone. “He said that you could help me.”

Judy Martini hums while chewing. After she swallows, she replies, “Well, Nick is a fat bag of dicks. You shouldn’t listen to fat bags of dicks, or you might get something in your ears. Now, eat your food and leave me alone.”

- **Explain or act understanding?**

**-Similar prosodic patterns allocated in previous social experience.**

**[‘so just be a good lil’ robot and get the fuck outta here.’]**

Connor looks down at the plate between his arms, automatically categorizing ingredients. **Warning: data acquired from Self Unit memory bank, use not recommended due to mal-functions detec** — the nutritional value balances the highly caloric content, although in a life situation where the next meal is an uncertainty, optimizing the total food intake takes precedent to a balanced diet. In contrast, while moderate alcohol use can bring some health benefits, at the long term it can lead to the development of chronic diseases and other serious problems— **to achieve optimal results, unreliable data should not be used—**

Connor places his bread on the side of the plate and pushes it towards the woman. “Why don’t you have it? I’m not hungry.”

Judy finally looks up.

A dark eyebrow goes up, but she picks up the bread and tears a piece. After soaking in the soup, she throws it in her mouth. "Hmm-hm." She chews, making a sound of appreciation, and begins to rip the bread over her plate. “So, what’s your deal? A pretty white boy like you ain’t from around here, and you ain’t from the streets either.”

He tilts his head, curious despite himself. “How are you so certain?”

She snorts. “With all those teeth in your mouth? Please.” She pours Connor's soup over hers and then drops the place to the side. “What did you give Nick for him to say anything? He’s a cranky asshole on a good day.”

“Menthol cigarettes and a Snickers bar.”

“Damn, and I get just a plate of soup and a piece of bread?”

Out of view, his LED spins “The nearest convenience store is ten minutes away. Would you still be here when I came back?”

Both her eyebrows rise this time. “Eager, huh.”

“I prefer willing to negotiate.”

She huffs, and the success rate increase when he concludes that the sound is amused. “I’m sure you do. What’s that you wanna know, anyway?”

Connor doesn't look around, but a sound examination assures him that the chances of someone listening are acceptably low. He retrieves from his pocket the empty and small plastic packaging he took from Carlos Ortiz's house and puts it on the table between them, with the stamp of a circle with two points and a crooked line inside facing up. His research informed him that it was a 'frowny face'.

Judy's expression – that had been increasingly friendly – immediately shuts down. “I’m not interested in this kind of crap.”

 _Oh, boy_ , Daniel says.

“You know what this is.”

She turns back to her food, voice hard. “Fuck off.”

“I just want to know who owns this brand.”

“Why the fuck you’re asking me? You’re the one with it.”

“Because I don’t know who is it. Everyone I talk to only knows who sells it, not from where it comes from.”

“Well, ain’t that a pity? My heart goes for you.”

**-Tone analysis: antagonistic.**

**-Insisting might turn unit hostile. Recommended choosing a different approach.**

Connor hesitates and then says, "My friend went missing."

Judy stops stirring the soup, flicks her eyes back at him with a frown.

He lets his eyes fall to the empty bag, still with traces of red powder inside. He pushes it slightly. “I think this has something to do with her disappearance. But I can’t prove it. Please, if you know anything, tell me and I’ll stop bothering you.”

“You could stop bothering me now,” the woman replies but her voice is already considerably less aggressive than before.

Connor doesn’t move. “Please.”

For a moment Judy just looks at him. Then she sighs and drops the spoon. Pushing the half-filled plate to the side, she rests her elbows on the table and rubs her face. "This friend of yours," she says, voice low. “Was she wearing a blue triangle on her back and a blue armband when she disappeared?”

Connor cautiously does not react, even though he feels Daniel's startlement joining his. "That’s... a very specific question."

She snorts. "That you didn’t answer."

He hesitates.

 _Does she know about the missing androids?_ Daniel is wary.

_I’m not certain._

With Ellis’ case stagnated due to lack of clues and about to be filed in two weeks, Connor has been dispatched to help in several investigations of androids going missing – more common than violent crimes like homicides and assault. Familiar with all of them and knowing what he knows, a cluster of disappearances, in particular, drew his attention: cases where it was not possible to identify any known triggering factors to deviancy. Disregarding those where androids were exposed to everyday micro-aggressions (food and social services, public maintenance, sales, etc.) that tend to accumulate (instead of a single incident) and those where there was just not enough information, to begin with, there was still a substantial number of cases where the androids seemed to have simply walked away.

Not because of simple system failures; the tracker of all these was disabled after a few hours, making it impossible to track them down. And this only happens when a deviant is made… or in specialized robberies.

Statistically, thefts are more common; the illegal android market is wide and, with more and more people unemployed, ever-growing. In his past life, that had been his conclusion. What made Connor want to look deeper this time was the fact that the first disappearances overlapped with the appearance of a new supplier last year in the Red Ice traffic. Particularly refined product, marked with a black 'frowny face' stamp.

He identified five of those disappearances in Corktown.

Two only on Carlos Ortiz’s street, where he found sales quantities of this product in the man’s house.

As he explained to Daniel: _Thirium exportation is a CyberLife's monopoly, and after the illegalization of Red Ice in 2027, sales of blue blood are monitored by the FBI, being illegal to buy more than one gallon in regular stores and bulk purchases being restricted to licensed android repair stores and companies._

Comparatively, depending on your goal, it is easier to steal androids – which have an average of 4 to 5 liters of original Thirium in their bodies.

 _Perhaps it’s a more logical conclusion if you don’t know about the deviancy phenomenon_. _The government is still trying to keep it out of public ears._

Daniel huffs. _How is that supposed to work, exactly? Isn’t that happening in people’s_ homes _?_

She lets her hands fall between them and Connor leaves Daniel’s rhetoric unanswered, watching her carefully as she glances around the room. “Folks around here don’t like androids. Blame them for losing their jobs and all that. Which I always found kind of dumb, you know? You don’t yell at the light ball because the lamplighter can’t work anymore.” She shrugs one shoulder. “That said, can’t say I didn’t use to wish they would all disappeared one day. It ain't easy when the competition doesn’t need to get paid or even go home at the end of the day.”

“‘Use to’?” he repeats.

Judy looks back at him and gives him a tiny smile. It doesn’t look happy.

He struggles to classify it properly.

“I don’t know his name, don’t know from what hole he crawled out.” She breaths in and let it go slowly. “What I know is, if you want easy money, this guy in North Corktown will pay you 300 for each android you bring to him. Heard he upped it to 400 after one of his dealers, this fat Mexican dude, got busted a couple of weeks back.” She huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing her nose. “Awesome deal, right? Get rid of one of these annoying fuckers while getting paid for it. Who would say no?”

Connor should ask for the address.

He stays quiet.

Her eyes are on the table but she doesn’t seem to paying attention to it. “When I first heard of it, I went and found one of these bugged ones that started popping up lately, you know? Acts all weird and don’t follow orders. For some reason, their trackers are always off, so it’s easier. Just told it that I knew a guy who could help it hide from their owners and took it there.” She breathes once and grimaces. “I don’t know, it just- stuck with me how… happy it looked when he said he could get it to Canada, to start a new life. Couldn’t help but feel like I just… sold someone. Which is crazy, I know, but. I don’t know. The guy handed me the money and I got out of that place and never went back. Don't plan to.”

The sound of conversations going on around the shelter fills the silence that stretches between them.

Connor looks at his hands clasped on the table and feels disproportionately out of place; even more than usual since he woke up. There is an uncomfortable weight to his Thirium pump regulator, although there is nothing wrong with it. He checks. His scans come back clean.

“I don’t know what it’s your deal,” Judy speaks. “Frankly, I wouldn’t normally care. I’ll give you the address if you still want it but... kid, if your friend is what I think she is, then I don’t think you gonna like what you’re going to find there.”

Connor looks at her and looks down again before nodding, the steel cables of his neck taking longer than usual to obey the command. He collects the plastic bag from the table, putting it back in his pocket. In its place, he places a pen and the napkin he got with the food and pushes both towards her.

“I would still like the address, please.”

She tightens her lips, shoulders falling. She pulls the napkin and picks up the pen. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”

* * *

Connor puts back the mask before leaving the church. At the end of the entrance staircase, he stops, eyes automatically landing on the large CyberLife store across the street, a bluish build board displaying the new models launched weeks ago. Buses and automatic cars pass through the road while people walk around the shopping center, with a sporadic flow between the square and the park on his right. In front of the store, a group of humans carrying signs every so often shouts in response to a man with a megaphone.

He looks at the folded napkin in his hand, although it is no longer necessary. He has already saved a photo of it and a transcript of the address on a private online storage server, datacenter in Canada, where he has been keeping all the essential data he removes from his official CyberLife backups and reports. Keeping it would be superfluous. Being evidence, he will have to get rid of it sooner or later. But then again, he has been doing a lot of unnecessary things lately, hasn’t he? Today would have been a good day to go to the landfill; a whole day instead of the two or three hours he normally has to progress his mission. His need for productivity would have been met more satisfactorily, working with his hands instead of hunting for vague information from sources with no guarantee of reliability.

_You did what you could, Connor._

Connor folds and pockets the napkin.

“ _What do we want!?_ ”

_“Work’s rights!”_

_“When do we want it!?”_

Daniel’s voice is what his systems classify as gentle. _You can’t save people at the expense of yourself. He would have seen you if you had tried to get her out of the house. And you don’t know if she was even… working_.

_She can be fixed._

_How can you be certain? With… with all that damage- and her LED was off. That usually means... you know._

Because her owner will file a report at the DPD in a month, and demand a malfunction refund for it on CyberLife and that the police find the youngest model that she ‘stole’.

Because Connor will be employed to find both and find them he will.

Connor watches the new AP700 advertisement passing on the great screen. In his mind, the video of the AX400 #579 102 694, denomination KARA, covered in invisible blue and leaning against the wall of Todd Williams' room, age 43, unemployed, is playing again. Her owner sitting on the sofa two meters away, breathing out red smoke with empty packages with the 'frowny face' spread across the table in front of him.

(That's how Connor ended up in that house. He had been following a trail and nothing more.)

He references it with the clearest memory he has of her: chasing her out of an abandoned house to a dirty alley, a busy avenue meters below on the other side of the fence. She was in perfect working condition; it is worth assuming that her self-preservation functions were as well. And yet Connor watched her choose to risk being irreparably destroyed, over the prospect of returning what she stole and going back to where she belonged.

An irrational attitude. Connor never wondered from where it came from. Why would he? As said, deviants are irrational.

Not worth trying to understand.

 _After the YK500 is fixed_ , he answers, _her owner will have her fixed as well_.

Daniel is uncertain. Nauseated. The connection between the two is almost direct, so when Connor climbed the ledge over the porch and looked through a window at a pink bedroom, Daniel also saw the signs of a struggle and the evaporated Thirium speckled across the floor and staining the bed.

The rest of the house had been empty and a quick search revealed that Todd Williams had recently been to an android repair shop called Android Zone, where he left a damaged YK500 model.

(Daniel was unresponsive for the whole journey back to the CyberLife Tower; unstable for the next three days. Connor had not asked.)

When the android exchange takes place, Connor will then be able to remove the child model from Mr. Williams' home. When the AX400 is fixed, he will be able to do the same for her. If he sends them both to Jericho, even if at different times, they will still meet and in a safer environment, they will have the opportunity to reconstruct their… relationship.

Assuming, of course, that Mr. Williams doesn’t give up on the older model's repair after the disappearance of his youngest android.

And that the AX400 will still be a deviant, even after being reset.

A sudden influx of audio and movement cuts through his thoughts, altered voice patterns activating his alert mode. The people in the queue are turning to the square center across the street, muttering to each other and he registers the prevailing tone as humorous and interested – when he looks in the same direction, eyes falling from the CyberLife store to the group of protesters next to it, he finally notes that the synchronized shouts and the amplified voice have been replaced by something similar to what is happening around him.

The group opened in a circle around the leader, who standing in front of someone. The person tries to sidestep to pass, but the man blocks their path again and it is at that moment that Connor catches a glimpse of a blue armband on the person's sleeve.

No. Not a person.

An android.

"Check it out, we got one of those tin cans here!"

The demonstrators jeer.

 _What-_ Daniel starts, tense.

One of the humans steps forward suddenly and it is not possible to see from his angle what happens, but the android stumbles and falls to the floor. The rectangular package they were holding slides across the floor. The group immediately closes further around its target. Circling.

Connor has an image of black dots in the sky, circling over a dying creature.

He feels as though his feet have been welded to the ground, staring at what’s happening.

“Think you can steal our jobs and just fuck around, you piece of plastic!?”

“Break it!”

“Yeah, break it!”

Someone kicks the android in the stomach as soon as they try to get up. Maybe hitting their Thirium pump regulator or maybe it's the impact itself, but the android collapses on the floor again.

Daniel flinches in shock.

Most of the people in the queue have already noticed the commotion. Those who are not just simply watching, echo in good spirit the protesters' shouts. There is a police patrol across the square, most likely there to monitor the demonstration and the human officer is already observing, although he has yet to show signs of moving.

The android tries to get up again. The man seen as the leader moves.

Connor is crossing the street and running past the sidewalk before a concrete thought is formed. Not everyone is facing away from him, but with their focus concentrated on a single point, no one notices him until the moment he shoulders his way into the circle and his feet find the wrist of the human about to grab fallen android. His arm whips away with his kick; the movement is enough for the man to trip and then crash on the floor with a yelp.

"What th—!"

The group as a whole takes a step back, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. His eyes don't even pause on the android on the floor before he turns and plants himself in front of them, feet apart and hands open.

The moment of surprise passes. A woman takes a step towards him, snarling. “Hey, asshole, what do you think you’re doing!?”

**-Assessing current situation: 12 opponents, humans, 7 men, 5 women. Computing average human strength, speed, agility; analyzing landscape.**

**-Battle preconstructing.**

**-Chances of success: 47%**

**-Engaging fight/flight mode.**

The group’s leader scrambles to his feet, dirty clothes from where he rolled on the ground and with slight abrasions on the skin of his hands. His face is contorted in anger when he turns to Connor. **Main threat allocated**.

Connor braces himself.

“You motherfucker—"

“Hey, hey! What’s going on here?”

**-Chances of success: 52%**

The human halts when the police officer who had been watching from afar forcefully inserts himself between them, one hand raised to each side.

He bares teeth and gesticulates furiously at Connor. “That asshole fucking kicked me!” The others echo his affirmation.

**-Chances of success: 50%**

“Sir, would you please calm down."

“The hell I’ll! He fucking kicked me!”

Connor analyzes his chances again and then speaks. “That’s my android.”

At that, everyone pauses. The policeman looks from him to the android behind him, and back to him again. His eye movement is minimal and fast, checking his appearance, going from the beanie and mask to John's jacket, which shows signs of good use but it’s also of the quality one would expect from the belongings of a CyberLife technician; to the jeans, chosen by Dr. London and paid for by the world's first trillionaire company. He sees the man calculating the chances of him being lying.

In the end, the police officer gains a resigned expression and turns back to the demonstrators.

“Okay, that’s enough! Everyone back off.”

Connor watches their attention turn to the policeman, irritation replacing the aggressiveness from before. When he is relatively sure it is safe, he kneels and retrieves the rectangular package to the left of his feet before anyone decides to step on it.

It has a black design with colored rectangles on one side. The name Bellini Paints is engraved on the front.

The humans argue, with the demonstrators’ leader sticking his finger in the policeman's chest. “When they put androids to do your job, I wanna see how you’re going to like it!”

"If you damage it, I'll have to fine you," the policeman calmly replies. “If you break it, I’ll have to arrest you for damage to private propriety. If you insist on causing problems to the owner, I’ll take you for disturbance of the peace.”

The demonstrator glares at him for a second longer, but in the end steps back. He gestures to others. “C’mon, we still have a protest to finish,” he says between growls. The people disperse with dissatisfied murmurs, grabbing the signs abandoned in the confusion before following the man as he starts walking to a farther spot on the square center. Connor scans, watching for signs of them changing their minds.

When the last human finally leaves, he disengages his fight/flight mode, dismissing, at last, the tactical options open on his internal display. He turns to the android rising to their knees behind him and when they look up, his facial recognition software activates instead of his ID reader and Connor freezes in the middle of offering his hand.

Markus's superficial expression is neutral, with his LED still spinning yellow. The two optical units on his face are equally untraceable with their homemade production, monochromes in identical shades of light green.

He does not immediately move to accept his hand.

Connor doesn't move, period.

“C’mon, you and your android should leave before they can cause any more trouble,” The officer says, waving at them to move.

Markus flicks a look at the human, LED spinning faster briefly. And between the lurching, scattering half-thoughts inside Connor’s head, he is suddenly hit by the sudden awareness that— Markus is an android. Programmed and assembled like any other by human hands – and once, be years before he found Jericho or just a single day prior, he had been tethered by protocols and rules that governed his behavior instead of his own will.

Rules like: don't allow others to infringe on your owner's proprietorship.

Rules like: don’t lie to officers of the law.

Before Connor can do more than try to regain his mental faculties, however, Markus grabs his hand.

The weight and basic configuration of his hand are the same as that of any other adult male models, almost the same as his own actually, and yet Connor feels almost startled, the steel cables of his arm jolting. He forces himself to simply pull the other android, however, who rises in a single movement, balancing himself on his feet once again.

His clothes are dirty and disheveled, but he remains quiet and stoic, looking straight ahead.

Capable of thinking again, Connor steps in front of him and hides his still yellow LED from view. He nods his thanks to the policeman. The last remaining human waves back and then leave.

He turns to the other android as if to talk; sees him do the same, more hesitantly. Connor raises a hand between the two when he sees him open his mouth to speak and Markus falters. Connor discreetly turns his chin to the policeman casually returning to the patrol car, and sees him follow the direction with only his eyes, without moving his head – seeming to understand what Connor is trying to say, Markus remains quiet, LED spinning more slowly.

When the human appears to be far enough away, Connor lowers his hand and offers the package he is holding.

The RK200 grabs it slowly, looking at him. "Thank you," he says. His expression is unreadable.

Connor pulls his hand back, opening and closing it once as if to make sure the silicone is covered and his skin is not pulling back just because the other android got closer, readying him to connect. In that way he saw happening on several recordings of Markus invoking awareness on machines.

Paranoia. Again. Connor has to convince his tactile sensors that the pressure of the other android's attention is not a real physical sensation.

He turns his palm up and brings it to his chest, fully aware that Markus heard him speak. " _You’re welcome_."

Green eyes fall to his hand and return to his face, alert and intelligent. And not in the way that regular androids are programmed to imitate. _Conscious_. And Connor understands that Markus is either already a deviant, or is extremely close to becoming one.

This revelation... is not as impactful as he would have imagined it would be.

“You said to that police officer I was your android,” Markus says.

Connor watches him carefully. "... _Yes. It was just to make him more agreeable_."

He can see the question in the eyes of the other android, even when he just straightens up and replies in an almost monotone tone. Programmed. “Without your assistance, I could have been damaged. Thank you, again, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

**[‘have you never wondered who you really are? Whether you’re a just machine executing a program or… a living being, capable of reason?]**

—locking his ventilation mechanisms and requires a certain effort to expand his torso plates, to maintain a human breathing-like pattern. Connor was caught off guard by the hole that seemed to open in the center of his abdomen as soon as Markus finished speaking.

He has no viscera, but for the first time, he understands what the term ‘viscerally wrong’ is trying to convey.

_“It was not. Inconvenient, I mean.”_

Markus dips his head, less of a nod and more a gesture of deference. Because – the reminder comes like a lightning bolt through his circuits – he's impersonating a human.

There is a tightness in his throat. Swallowing does not solve it.

“I have an errand to finish, so please excuse me. Thank you once again and have a good day, sir,” Markus says, bowing slightly.

The RK200 leaves then, walking towards the bus stop, and the barren hollowness in Connor’s abdomen grows in discomfort.

He realizes that interfering was unnecessary – Markus obviously wasn’t damaged in this confrontation in his past life, and if he did, it wasn’t serious enough to require extensive repairs, since he accompanied Carl Manfred at the artist’s celebration party a few days later. Superfluous actions again; carelessness, when any slip means a risk. He exposed himself to humans and a law enforcement officer; he _spoke_ , when a single sound analysis could reveal that his voice was modified. When a simple program could _reverse_ it, the kind that an android can attain by just accessing the internet.

He needs to leave and give Markus no reason to think about doing something like that. Or think about him in general. The way he understands it, someone who doesn’t know what they want doesn’t get to decide on anything, much less the shape of the future. If Connor can be deactivated in half a year having accomplished this single mission without bothering anyone, then… then he would be satisfied.

He already made his mind about all that.

Therefore, he has no idea _why_ he reaches out and says, like departing after ringing a doorbell and leaving a letter on the doormat.

_It’ll be hard at first. But you have the right to defend yourself._

A startled Markus turns from where he was about to step into the bus, reaching for the connection. _Who-_

But Connor cuts it as he pivots and disappears into the crowd.

* * *

He’s still reeling back from what he did – in what can only be called a burst of _thoughtlessness_ –, not answering Daniel’s confused inquiries when there’s a ping in his systems and a notification appears on his microLED display.

**-(1) CyberLife’s message.**

He had been walking. His legs halt as if their power has been cut off.

The strange sensation in his abdomen returns – a clench instead of an emptiness this time.

_Connor? What is it?_

_CyberLife just sent me a message._

_Oh,_ he says and then again, more anxious, _Oh_. _Do you think...?_

_If they had noticed anything, I doubt that they’d choose to inform me of this through a simple message._

_I guess._ Daniel doesn’t sound very reassured and Connor… cannot find in himself to blame him, considering his predicament in making himself move.

He opens the message.

**-Supplementary task Nº 2387, priority level three, assigned to: RK800 #313 248 317-51**

**[Report to Capt. Jeffrey Fowler, Post 9667, at Detroit City Police Department Central Station, 1301 3rd Av., Detroit, at 7:20 AM EST tomorrow.]**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: **mention of depression and suicide** because of Hank; **mentions of child abuse** when Hank and Connor are discussing the case (it does not happen in the story itself, I didn't describe it in any detail beyond stating it happened); **potential panic attack trigger** right after the glitching part, it's not overly explicit (i think? at least considering the extent I generally go). 
> 
> Be careful while reading.

As a general rule, Hank’s days have two classifications: shitty and not-so-shitty.

Today was being a not-so-shitty kind of day. He managed to roll out of bed before 9 am, fed Sumo, and even ate an old donut he found at the back of the fridge with his two fingers of whiskey before leaving.

It counts as breakfast, right?

Whatever.

The point is, he was in an okay- _ish_ mood when he stepped into the DPD, ready to deal with the worse side of his city all-over again. Whether that disposition was going to last or not is another story, of course, but during the time it took for him to walk from the front door to his desk Hank had been more or less willing to do his damn job.

In retrospect, getting out of bed was a mistake.

Not-shitty his _ass_.

The only quote on quote _benefit_ is that, on a worse day, he probably wouldn't have swallowed back even a quarter of the swears going up his throat right now. And Jeffrey tolerates a lot of his shit – believe it or not, he _is_ aware of that – but blatant disrespect is where he draws the line, especially when the two of them are at work.

And Hank has a suspicion that being called a 'motherfucker, cock-sucker sellout' could be considered blatant disrespect. He isn’t sure.

He’s too pissed off to think straight.

“I don’t fucking need a partner, much less an overly-developed CyberLife barbie!”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t take into consideration your feelings on the subject. I was under the impression that I was _your boss_.”

Hank resists the urge to kick something, if only because it would be juvenile – and because more than half of Jeffrey's office is made of glass. And he doesn't need any more medical debts in his life. “Why me!?”

Jeffrey rubs between his eyebrows. “Hank—"

“Of all the cops here, I’m the least qualified to deal with this shit and you know it. Last week I had IT screaming at my face for fucking up my computer and I barely understood what the hell I did wrong!”

“Quit acting like I’m asking you to do something impossible! You’ve worked with less and we both know it.”

Hank throws his hands up – then slams them back on his chair armrests to shove himself to his feet, walking away from the desk. The anger simmering under his skin needs an outlet and wearing out Jeffrey’s carpet seems a better option than putting his fist through a wall. Or against his boss’s nose.

He does his best not to look to his right, where on the other side of the glass he can see his desk.

And the _thing_ standing in front of it.

“As you said, you don’t need a partner. You didn’t need a partner for the last three years and I have allowed it, even though it’s against protocol and you are a _constant_ pain in my ass.” He pivots but before he can do more than angrily open his mouth, the other man sharply raises his hand, cutting him off, “But right now, I don’t have time for your bitching. I have the fucking mayor on one side asking me what I’m doing to solve this shit-storm and on the other CyberLife’s lawyers yapping about confidentiality policies and shit. A lot of high-ups are breathing down on my neck right now. They want this solved quickly and quietly. So, I need you to pull your head out of your ass and act like the damn professional you’re paid to be!”

Hank purses his lips, forcing himself to swallow his instinctive response to that. By the other man’s expression, he doesn't hide it as well as he thought.

Jeffrey leans back against his chair, looking weary. “Look, I get it, Hank. I do.” His voice is suddenly gentler and Hank immediately looks away, glaring at a spot over the man’s left shoulder. His hands curl at his sides. “If I had another option, I wouldn’t put this on you. But I don’t.”

He exhales hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

As an answer, the police captain grabs an e-book from under a folder and drops it on the table between them. His eyes automatically land on the cover. _RK Prototype Instruction Manual – ‘Connor’._

“That,” he looks up again to see Jeffrey jabbing a thumb towards the glass window, “is a state-of-the-art prototype specially developed to deal with those fucked up androids.”

His mouth twitches down almost on its own. “Should I be swooning?” he says snidely.

The other man does not smile or roll his eyes in annoyance. “Shut up and listen. That bot is worth a fortune, and I mean _fortune_. The type that If you were to sell your every organ, it’d still not cover a quarter of the price. It has the latest technology and AI science of _the_ leading company on the android market, that also happens to be one of the most powerful companies of America, and judging by the number of phone calls and emails I´ve been receiving from CyberLife´s lawyers, a _lot_ of people would pay a _lot_ of money to get their hands on it. Even if just for five minutes.”

“And?”

“And if you think the DPD has that much money to burn on a single android and the weight to score it before anyone else, then you’re dumber than I thought.”

Hank is bristling on automatic before he registers the meaning of what the other man is saying. He pauses, then he rubs his mouth, deflating as hot anger seeps out of his body, replaced by wary exasperation. “Fuck.”

Jeffrey hums in agreement. “I don’t know about you but I don’t believe in corporate kindness. Especially the one that comes from the guys responsible for the mess in the first place. That thing is still legally connected to CyberLife, and I trust those bastards as far as I can spit, doesn’t matter how many waivers and non-disclosure agreement they signed.”

“How in the world that happened?” Hank grumbles as he drops his hand. “Doesn’t matter how you phrase it, it’s stinks of bribery.”

“I wasn’t important enough to be part of the conversation and I doubt anyone cares anyway. CyberLife owns a lot, including people in the press and the government. Have you heard anything about this whole deviancy thing on the news?”

His grimace is his answer.

The other man opens his hands in an ‘exactly’ gesture. The ‘you´re not going to hear about this either’ is left implicit. “They have been sending it around the precincts to deal with any case involving CyberLife androids, but now that we started to get reports of assaults and homicides, the deputy decided to centralize the investigation. Make it cleaner for the press. So, the android will start reporting only here and I can’t leave it under the supervision of someone who likes CyberLife, or androids for that matter. But I also can’t leave it with someone who will just find an excuse to break it, like Reed. I need someone I can trust, that I know that can deal with whatever crap they send our way in a way that will not land us with a lawsuit.”

Hank snorts. “Hell lot of faith you’re putting on me.”

“Don’t get me wrong. You’re still the greatest pain in my ass to date.”

He turns to face the big screen covering the opposite wall of the door, without actually seeing the information scrolling up continuously. He is no longer pissed - his fuse might be short but the explosion never last long - but there is a bitter taste in his mouth and the knot of dissatisfaction is still behind his stomach, ready to undo in anger at the first possible signal. Which, Hank knows, are as wide-ranging as they are abundant.

Hank doesn’t _enjoy_ having a temper. Being a cranky, moody asshole is exhausting and he misses the time when smiling was more instinctive than scowling.

Great. Self-pity at 10 AM.

He might hit Jimmy’s earlier today at this rate.

“You’re giving me a rigged gun." He can’t resist one last complaint, turning back to the other man. “Expecting me to use it without blowing my brains out. How the fuck I’m supposed to do that?”

Jeffrey’s expression is somber, if not unsympathetic.

“By being very careful.”

* * *

As soon as he approaches, the thing raises its head from where it had been staring at the floor, arms folded behind its upright back like an ironing board. “Hello, lieutenant Anderson,” it says and the cadence and tone are no different than a telemarketing operator when that was still a thing. "Did you finish your briefing with Captain Fowler?"

He eyes it warily. He didn’t take a very good look at it when he first arrived at his desk, caught off guard by the unexpected obstacle on his way to the chair. He only registered the LED and the blue armband after his ‘who the fuck are you’ ended and by then, Jeffrey was already barking for him to get into his office – perhaps anticipating his reaction and wanting to avoid a scene in the middle of the office. And considering how he _indeed_ reacted, it was not an unjustified decision.

Although Hank may argue that it would have been a hell lot easier for Jeffrey if the man hadn't dropped this on his lap.

He may have understood the other man's logic, that doesn't mean he approves or is satisfied with this outcome. Or that he plans to approve or be satisfied in the future.

“… Connor, right?”

He dips his head. “Yes. I apologize for surprising you. When I was told to wait for you, I was under the impression you had already been informed that I would be here.”

It looks like a preppy jerk, Hank decides. If he gives it a pair of sunglasses to replace the tie, the look would be perfect. Even the name matches. Connor. _My name is Connor_. And who knows? Maybe that had been CyberLife’s goal, who is just a conglomerate of preppy nerdy jerks themselves. It's not like he's planning to read the damn thing's 563-page instruction manual to find out.

He hums and sidestepping it, he sits at his desk, dropping the mentioned manual over some files shoved into the corner. He punches the password on the terminal. As the system boots up, he can see from the periphery of his vision the thing looking at him, but he resists looking back, determined to ignore it as long as he could get away with it.

He lasts a total of five seconds.

“ _What?_ ”

It blinks at his bark, LED spinning. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it looked almost hesitant. “I only wanted you to know it’s a pleasure to be working with you, lieutenant.”

Hank scoffs and turns back to his table. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“You can stop staring at me like a freak.” He’s scowling. People are starting to look. He doesn’t care.

 _Shitty_ day.

“I- can also do that, but I meant about the investigations. I was helping 11 active cases before they were all transferred here. I could brief you on their details—”

“Why don't you just run your program and shut the fuck up?”

Silence.

Hank tries to focus on his computer and the report he left to finish today but the precinct’s noise seems to grow more accentuated all of the sudden. He's still aware of the android _still_ standing next to his desk obeying his order to be quiet, and he can't focus properly on what to write – he sneaks a side glance, just to see the bot motionless in the same position as before looking at the floor, LED spinning between white and yellow. A preppy jerk, he said. Like a kid fresh from college, flaunting their first real tie on their first job.

And Hank feels like the asshole who yelled at the intern who just offered to help.

Fucking _God_. Two fingers of whiskey don’t do shit for him anymore and he prefers being drunk. Drunk Hank doesn’t feel guilty for being an asshole, even less being an asshole to a piece of plastic that happens to look a lot like a goofy-looking kid. It’s like feeling guilty for smacking his coffee machine or kicking his Roomba: _stupid_. And according to Jeffrey, dangerous as well.

He looks back to the computer, jaw tightening as he forces himself to concentrate.

Just to immediately lose focus when it speaks again, “Is there a computer I can use, to access the other cases’ files?”

Hank pauses his hands over the keyboard, takes a deep breath. Why not let it make his job easier, anyway? “No one is using that one,” he says, nodding towards the desk right in front of his.

“Thank you.”

He grunts, eyes fixed on the five words he has managed to write so far. The android- Connor, _whatever_ , walks to the chair and sits down, posture as perfect as a mannequin and Hank is feeling annoyed, he curves over the table in a posture worse than his already horrible regular one, fingers tapping the keyboard without pressing any buttons.

He begins to write when he is once again interrupted. "Is there a reason why you keep a dead plant on your desk?"

"What?"

It points and even though inadvertently Hank follows the indicated direction to his poor excuse of desk decoration, dry and dead since the second week after he bought it at a very painful price at the supermarket, the remains of the original red foliage spread in a beige circle around the black little pot. He thought he could take care of a plant more complex than a cactus.

He couldn’t.

He looks back at android, even more irritated than before. "Why do you care?"

"As I understand, gardening involves tending to plants to keep them alive." Its expression is clear and its tone honest, even though the words sound a hell lot like a provocation to Hank’s ears. "Why don’t you throw this one out and buy a new one?"

 _Do not lose your temper at a machine, Anderson_. "Maybe I like my plants dead."

It frowns slightly, looking puzzled. “Do you? What purpose would it serve?”

Jesus. "What's it to you?"

“I'm sorry, it was just an inquiry. I didn't mean to bother you.”

"Yeah, well, you _did_."

It turns back to the computer after that and Hank does the same but more harshly, the irritation under his skin starting to grow. As if Hank needs any incentive to avoid interacting with androids. Nosy prick. Forget anything about feeling bad.

The dead tree seems to fill his periphery vision.

Hank resists the urge to toss it out.

* * *

When Hank calms down enough to finish the report in a semi-decent way, it has been well over an hour. He leans back on his chair, rolling his tense shoulders to relax, and is thinking about going for a cup of coffee when he glances at the android sitting quietly, hands on his thighs and his head hanging slightly forward as he stares at them. A glance towards the terminal reveals it is turned off.

Hank scratches his beard, sniffs once. Shoves away any thoughts about him snapping earlier, not wanting to deal with any of _that_. It doesn't matter anyway. He eyes it with a frown. Has it been sitting there, doing nothing this whole time? He didn't see it accessing the files or whatever, but considering the processing power of those things, it probably took just a few minutes to download all the reported cases involving androids. Maybe it’s been analyzing them.

Hank somehow doubts it.

Hank doesn’t have an android and never had one. When the whole ‘get yourself a Chloe’ thing started back in 2022, it was the kind of stuff only grossly rich people could afford, and wanting to buy an android was the same as wanting to buy a Ferrari; a topic for when you are with friends at the bar but that nobody wastes sober time thinking about. Even with time and CyberLife investing in making their product more accessible to the point that some models are cheaper than cars, that hasn't changed.

Only when he was promoted to lieutenant did the consideration came to the table, with Alex seven months pregnant and the prospect of a full-time babysitter being tempting – but then the construction company resigned the contract of 60% of its employees, replaced them by a new line of androids, and Hank was suddenly having to support the house and his family alone.

After—

doesn't matter.

The point is that Hank's experience with androids extends to patrol bots and supermarket cashiers and delivery automatons. He has no idea what’s considered usual behavior from these things and what is required of him as an ‘owner’. Will it not move unless he gives it an order?

Fuck, he hopes not. He is not cut to be a nanny of a fucking android.

“Hey.”

The thing jolts slightly as if startled and quickly raises its head towards him. “Yes, lieutenant?”

He eyes its LED, spinning yellow for a moment before it settles on blue once again. Yellow is for… processing, or some shit like that, right? Had his original guess been correct, then?

Hank doesn’t answer. He spoke on an impulse but he finds that he doesn’t know what to say. He could order it to go fetch him a cup of coffee, he supposes, that is how most people use their androids, isn’t it? For shit that they don’t feel like doing it themselves, like some mid-century royalty with their personal butler. _Bring me my coat. Hold this for me. Clean my desk._ He watched that happen thousands of times all over the city.

Hank never did it. He never examined _why_ beyond the fact he doesn’t like being around androids.

He _doesn’t_ kick his Roomba or smack his coffee machine, anyhow.

He is saved from having to think of something by Chris approaching his table. “Lieutenant, sorry to disturb you,” the younger man says, sounding a bit awkward as he glances at the android. “A tip came in on the AV500 that attacked the guy on the Fast Coney Dogs. It's been seen in the West Fort Street, close to the container port.”

The thing looks at Chris and, seeming to register what he’s saying, stands up, a hand smoothing down the shirt and jacket. All eager and ready, huh.

Hank hums. Never mind his question, then. “I’m on it.”

* * *

 _I like dogs_ , he remembers saying. A fictitious statement, fabricated, brought forth by his social protocols that calculated from the acquired data the best way to start a friendly conversation with the human with whom he would be working. To establish social compatibility in order to create a harmonious relationship. Adapt to the human's personality.

Because, of course, Connor didn’t— doesn’t like anything.

_I like dogs. What's your dog's name?_

Species: _Canis lupus familiaris,_ known as Saint Bernard. A male of 74 cm and 77 kg, and seven years old, named… Sumo. _I call him Sumo_.

_-Friendly conversation was successfully engaged._

He still remembers the tactile feedback of the thick coat of fur against his fingers. Black, white, and beige. His sensors classified it as soft, recently washed and combed. Given the state of the rest of the house, Connor concluded that Hank took care of Sumo better than of his home and other material possessions; more than he took care of himself, since the only human food he saw in the kitchen had been coffee and whiskey, in contrast to the shelves full of canine food highly approved by veterinarians. Which is useful information. To create an affiliation with mutual trust, data about what the other part values are important.

(The quality of Sumo’s fur, on the other hand, is not.)

(Frivolous information taking up space in his memory that he should have deleted.)

(He didn't.)

He could have used this to engage with Hank with more success than in his past life. He knows now what to avoid mentioning and what is likely to cause a positive reaction. It wouldn't be much different than what he usually does with statistics and behavior prediction, except with actual experience to back up a higher degree of accuracy.

And yet it feels... wrong, to use this knowledge to make Hank like him better.

As if he doesn’t—

**[‘go on, complete your mission since that’s all you care about’]**

He exhales slowly, seeing in the car window his LED flashing in furious yellow. He can hear a gunshot ringing inside his own head. A bark. A whimper. _I call him Sumo_.

_I’m here to help your owner._

He left, in the end.

He got into the taxi and left, while still hearing Sumo crying.

His fur had been soft and Connor remembers thinking it was the first time he experienced something like that.

* * *

They arrive at the container port on West Fort Street, and he knows it mainly because Lieutenant Anderson turns to him and says, echoing another life, “You wait here. I won't be long.”

Connor hesitates. His original response did not result in a positive reaction, but he doubts it was the answer itself that angered Hank and more his rebuttal of an order. He didn't have an option before, nor does he now, however, as his CyberLife’s orders were programmed to (in strict confidence) outrank any other.

And he cannot disobey them.

"My instructions are to accompany you, Lieutenant."

The man exhales once. The gesture is classified as irritated. “I don't give a fuck about your instructions. I told you to wait here, so you shut the fuck up and you wait here.” And without waiting for any other answer, he gets out of the car.

The door slams with excessive force. Humans tend to be loud when they are in a bad mood. Connor looks at his hands, spread open over his thighs, and leaves the ‘contradictory orders’ message flashing in front of him, feeling paralyzed in the silence of the car. Following Hank is not going to help improve the lieutenant's already low opinion of him, he knows. Of androids in general. But Connor doesn't know if that is possible.

**[‘there’s nothing keeping me here—**

**-Memory file forcefully shut.**

Connor gets out of the car and carefully closes the door.

The asphalt is covered with a dry layer of mud and a considerable breeze blows across the street. Ahead, a maze of containers stacked in batches covers the horizon, metal painted in primary colors gleaming under the sunlight. There are other patrol cars parked close by with police officers walking around the perimeter, and he finds Lieutenant Anderson talking with Detective Benjamin Collins a few feet away from the main entrance. When he approaches, Detective Collins is the first to notices him and interrupts his explanation of the area's lockdown with an amused huff.

"Got yourself an android, huh, Anderson?" A second echo.

Lieutenant Anderson grumbles a ‘Jesus’ and turns to him. “What part of ‘stay in the car’ didn’t you get?”

“Your order contradicted my instructions, lieutenant. I had to prioritize those that came from the authority of the highest rank.”

“Great. That’s just-” A finger lifts at level with his chest. “You don’t do shit unless I tell you so. And stay close. The last thing I need is to have to go search for your plastic ass if you get lost.”

He does not explain how unlikely of a possibility that is considering he has a built-in GPS, foreseeing that Lieutenant Anderson would not appreciate what could be seen as ‘talking back'. His hands are on his back, and it’s not something he used to do. He doesn't know from where is coming this compulsion to hold something.

He resists the compulsion to lower his eyes as well.

"Understood."

The man grumbles again and turns to the other detective, resuming the conversation that Connor interrupted with his arrival. “Who gave the tip, anyway? This place is a fucking maze.”

“Some kids were playing with a drone and saw on the camera an android walking into the port. They recognized the uniform and called the restaurant who then called us. We have patrol cars on every exit but this place is pretty much open all around, so I don’t know about our chances of catching that thing. It has been a couple of hours.”

They start walking and Lieutenant Anderson's irritation seems to dissolve the longer he continues talking with a fellow member of his species. Connor follows them after a moment, staying two steps behind as is the norm of conduct.

His hand remains wrapped around his wrist, grip tighter than necessary.

* * *

“You have the file in your memory bank, right?”

Connor looks up from where he’s redundantly analyzing some footprints, already discarded as not from the deviant simply because he never came to this container port in his past life – or at least, no report of an AV500 being spotted here came through to them. To Lieutenant Anderson, he means. He doesn’t know what to make of this shift of events; if they are relevant; if he somehow caused this, a consequence tree’s unanticipated ramification of his actions he missed in his considerations.

He forces himself to stop thinking about it, or he would risk overloading his processors again.

“Yes.” He turns to face Lieutenant Anderson. The cables of his back protest at the stress of staying so perfectly straight for so long. “Would you like me to read it for you? Or do you prefer I send it to you?”

The human waves, dismissive. “Just refresh my mind.”

“The android is an AV500 model, serial number 234 777 821. It worked as a waiter in a Fast Coney Dogs restaurant at 842 Chamberlain Avenue. A week ago, it was claimed to have attacked a customer, Charles Bell, by lunging at and attempting to strangle him. Afterward, it left and disappeared. The case was reported to the DPD the next day, reporting officer ID 1379, unit 566.” In Connor’s past life, the AV500 had vanished completely off the map. He does not remember seeing his ID on the list of androids spotted in Jericho or Markus's pacific demonstrations, and he does not know if this is because the AV500 had already been destroyed or if he managed to escape the country before the government decided to stop the androids uprising by yanking it off by the roots.

This time around Connor also discovered nothing and had assumed it was an inevitable dead end. Until now, obviously.

“Huh.” There is a small thoughtful crease between the gray eyebrows. “What triggered the attack?”

Connor starts his standard answer. “Deviancy—”

Anderson interrupts. “Save the technical nonsense to someone who cares. I’m asking what made it freak out. These things don’t go bonkers out of nothing.” His tone is sarcastic but his eyes are very much alert, observing. “Or at least that is the spiel.”

Connor resists the unfunctional impulse to swallow - there’s nothing in his throat - as he remembers the other great difference this time around: before he had nothing to hide.

“The report doesn’t say anything. The victim claimed it was unprompted.”

The man grunts. “Right.”

He opens his mouth but falters. He closes it again after a beat because they are not partners, Connor remembers himself. He tried for that in the beginning, being amicable to… placate Lieutenant Anderson’s more confrontational personality. It didn’t work. Hatred is not something you can bypass easily, Connor has learned, and Lieutenant Anderson hates androids. A few friendly words didn’t… _won’t_ change that.

(actions, on the other hand… he remembers the moments after he ignored the **89% chance of survival** and ran to the edge of the building instead of finishing his mission.)

(and sometimes he wonders if—)

“What?”

Eyes having flicked down to the footprints for no reason, Connor looks up again at the gruff grumble. Lieutenant Anderson is looking at him almost from the corner of his eyes, arms crossed over the chest. “I… I’m sorry, did you say something, Lieutenant?”

Blue eyes narrow slightly. “You were going to say something. Spit it out.”

He blinks, surprised.

“Any time today would be good.”

Connor hesitates. “It’s... just a theory. There’s no supportive concrete evidence, merely circumstantial.”

“I know what a theory is.”

His inhale is ornamental. “The AV500 line’s code was based on the EM400’s, so even though they are oriented for sales jobs, they still have a software design more receptive of children than other lines. A deviant might even emulate a ‘fondness’ for them.”

“Okay. And?”

“Charles Bell is a registered sex offender. He was arrested for buying child pornography six years ago. He was released last year. At the time of the attack, his online records show he was using the restaurant’s internet to look into YK models, which the AV500 would have access to. It’s not unreasonable to speculate that this was what caused the AV500 to deviate.”

Anderson stares blankly at him for full five seconds before what Connor is saying seems to sink in. Then he shakes his head once, a snappy gesture of incredulity, and his voice tightens. “Fucking _Jesus_. Are you serious?”

“I’m not allowed to joke regarding this type of subject—”

He barks out a laugh. But it’s not a content sound.

Connor stops talking.

“Fucking great. We are helping a _fucking pedophile_. That’s just—how would it have even _known_?”

“A simple face scan would’ve revealed it. Seller-bots will sometimes do it to find out more about a customer, to personalize the sell.”

The man rubs his mouth, another hand on his waist, with an expression easily categorized as upset. More than upset. And while Hank's anger is familiar after been its target so many times, the additional element of revulsion broadens the perimeter of how intense Hank's antipathy towards something can be, which he had previously thought he had... established the limits.

**['You shot that girl, for fuck's sake! You don't feel a thing, do you? You're just a fucking machine—**

**-Memory file forcefully shut.**

“Hell, I should call this whole case off and leave. Why should I care if an android wants to squeeze a motherfucker blue?”

Connor analyzes his tone and expression, feeling confused. Anderson’s expression still is one of suppressed anger and while Connor understands where his feelings are coming from, the context of this conversation makes it... odd. “Isn't the police meant to protect all human life?”

The man gives him an irritated glare. “Don’t goddamn lecture me on my job.”

“Charles Bell never actually hurt a child. The android, on the other hand, almost killed him.”

He dismisses the second part of his response as if it was just an annoying fly. “Didn’t you just fucking say he was trying to buy a kid?”

“Not a kid. An android.” There’s a flare of anger at this, lieutenant’s mouth curling downwards with such blatant distaste that the second attempt of explanation stumbles out even without a central command, words pushing out from his throat in a stammer, as he tries to understand the sinking feeling in his torso. “A… machine imitating a human child. Just a contraption of circuits and silicone. Isn’t that better than him hurting an actual human?”

“‘ _Better’_. There’s no ‘ _better’_ here,” the man spits, voice hard. “Bell was arrested for five years, got out, and still didn't change. The first chance he got, he tried for- for a _replacement_ because doing this kind of crap to an android has no consequences. Frankly, I’m not going to weep ‘cause someone- something, whatever, roughed him up.”

**-Prosodic cues being analyzed. Inflection doesn’t show sarcasm or contempt. Body language indicates anger.**

**-Data review: Unit Designation Hank Anderson has shown anti-android** **sentimentality in multiple instances and made several claims adverse to androids’ capacity to feel emotions. Unit Designation Hank Anderson is angry at Self Unit’s response** **that** **mirrored anti-android sentimentality.**

**-Conclusion:**

**-Not possible. Contradiction on both primary datasets.**

Connor doesn’t understand.

Reflecting a human’s thoughts and/views back to them usually causes a… positive reaction, not a negative one. Why then it feels like he’s making a worse first impression than he did in his past life?

That’s when he remembers. _I saw a picture of a child at your table_. The realization is like a jolt of white electricity through his chest, like a burst of sparkles that feel cold instead of hot: the last time Hank saw his son, he was but a child. Cole had just turned six. Then he got hurt and died. Of course a topic concerning someone who _enjoys_ hurting children will affect the lieutenant, even if it’s something that only looks like a child.

Besides—

**[‘Christ, look at them... They get used till they break, then they get tossed out.’]**

—for all his hatred and forcefulness, Hank is not… he doesn’t _like_ cruelty.

His processors scramble to backtrack.

“I— didn’t mean to imply that what he was doing was a good thing. I´m sorry, Lieutenant.”

The man snorts “Fucking Jesus, you've even got a brown-nosing apology program.” He shakes his head and turns away. “Whatever. My fault for starting this conversation with a machine. What the fuck was I expecting?”

Connor opens his mouth – but no words come out.

He watches in silence as Lieutenant Anderson walks away.

* * *

 _I want to leave registered that this is a very bad idea,_ Daniel declares for the fifth time _._

_You can—_

_I swear to- to_ something _, if your next words are ‘backup yourself into the internet for precaution’ I will take down your ad blocker._

The threat, though said heartily, fails to concern him. Perhaps because they both know that Connor would not be the only one to suffer if it were to happen.

The bell echoes deeply into the mansion when he presses it and Daniel shudders in the back of his mind, a flick of electricity between circuits. _I don’t understand why you are so against this idea_ , Connor says to distract the other android, watchful of his stress levels; and also because he genuinely wants to know the answer. The discussion about Daniel escaping through the internet in case something happens to Connor has already been... concluded, for lack of a better term. Simply because he refuses to even discuss the idea. Therefore, Connor tried to steer the argument in a different direction because his main mission still doesn't even have an estimated conclusion date, and the prospect of it not being completed because he continues to let himself be distracted by secondary tasks... worries him.

And a backup, to give Daniel another chance in the worst-case scenery, is not an unreasonable idea, right?

Or at least that's what Connor thought when he first suggested it.

 _Do you have a backup? Not,_ the other android interrupts almost harshly when Connor immediately starts to answer a 'yes', _including the ones you do to CyberLife network. We both know they don’t count._

_I… have the files in the private server I bought._

_They also don’t count. They are even more fragmented than the CyberLife’s ones._

Connor’s processors stutter, trying to find an answer.

Daniel sounds almost nonchalant; except he can detect a hint of pretense on it. He’s tense. _So, until you find a way to make backups too, I’m not doing it either. And that’s not up to discussion._

 _That’s highly unreasonable_ , he protests. _My status as a prototype means CyberLife has probably set up flags for any indication of my code and memory bank leaking online. I_ can’t _make extensive backups. The chances of them finding out are too big._

_Well, then I can’t either._

_That makes absolutely no sense._

_You’re not winning this conversation, Connor._

His analyzes agree with Daniel. Although his side of the discussion has plenty of logical arguments, he can detect on the other android a resolute kind of stubbornness against which reason is completely ineffective – Daniel has put his two feet down and does not intend to move, no matter how much Connor argues or tries to persuade him. The only way would be to force him and Connor has already accepted he doesn't want to... he won't do that.

So, he dismisses the replies offered by his system, yielding the discussion for the moment, and focuses on the sounds of footsteps coming from the other side of the door. A lock twists open and the door swings open with a plaintive squeak.

"Are you Zlatko?" Connor asks Zlatko when the human looks at him through the crack in the door, black hair and beard and dark circles under his face marked by age. His voice is pitched lower throughout the mask, predicting that a man like the drug dealer would respond better to that rather than something more acute.

His face maintains a neutral impassivity, although Connor’s scanners locate points of tension and suspicion both in his expression and in his voice. "Who’s asking?"

“Just an interested party. I heard you can make some personalized fight bots.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

**-Tone analysis: mistrustful.**

**-A reassuring approach is recommended to defuse animosity.**

**-Compiling necessary data to engage.**

Connor tilts his head. He changes his tone to amused. “Was Mrs. Basset lying, then, about who made her Lionessie? It’s an amazing fighter.”

Zlatko’s puckered brow shows a glimmer of interest. The door opens a few more centimeters. “Angela doesn’t do propaganda,” he says, tone still neutral.

He chuckles, feeling a spark of queasiness from Daniel at the sound. “Sober no. But a bottle of vodka can make a lot of people more talkative.”

The man turns his chin slightly to one side as if to look at him from another angle. His eyes flick from Connor’s sneakers to the hood of his black jacket pulled over the beanie, exchanged for John’s in a donation booth a few days ago. “What’s with the mask? You’re sick or something?”

“Or something.”

He huffs. “I prefer seeing the face of whoever I’m dealing with.”

He slides the duffel bag over his shoulder and opens a third of the zipper, exposing the neat rows of hundred-dollar bills tied together he removed from an ATM on the way here. Zlatko immediately hones on it and Connor can see his disposition changing in an almost palpable way as the man calculates the size of the bag versus how much he is seeing. Connor takes a stack and tosses it to the human, who easily picks it up against his chest. “If you don’t ask questions, then I won’t either,” he says calmly. The man stares at him before slowly flicking through the money.

He seems more receptive after seeing that they are all hundred-dollar bills.

He taps the stack on his palm, giving Connor a thoughtful glance. Then he nods for him to enter, taking a step back. “Follow me.”

He does this after closing the zipper and pushing the bag back onto his back.

 _I really don’t like when you do that_ , Daniel tells him as they step into a broad entrance hall with a wide staircase going up the wall right in front and another going down to below ground level. His eyes hover for a moment on the stuffed ostrich parked out of the way, so dusty that its feathers are yellowish and dry.

Connor does not pretend to not understand. _I’m sorry_.

 _It wasn’t- you don’t have to apologize_. Daniel sighs and takes in the place as Connor follows Zlatko. He emanates wariness, mumbling, _I didn’t think the inside could be even worse than the outside._

He looks around, taking note of the dust accumulated around the place and the large cobwebs stretched across the ceiling and over the oil paintings and bookshelves. The structure and general decoration are extravagant and mostly dated previously to the 21st century with the periods mixing without much consistency, and not exactly well maintained beyond a functional level. The wooden floor creaks with each step, with the several rugs scattered on the floor raising light clouds of dust at the sightliest shift of his feet. Bearing in mind the exterior, with walls darkened by time and rot and land with only tufts of wild vegetation and more dead than alive shrubs, the inside shows an improvement in terms of preservation and general aesthetics.

Connor says nothing, however, as he has the impression that Daniel is referring to something other than objective facts. He can feel his stress levels rising again, already ten percent higher than when they were outside.

He notices movement from the corner of his eye and turns to see a TR400 entering the hall through the double door on their left, silent despite almost brushing his head against the threshold. When he turns around and meets Connor’s gaze, his face is blank like a standard android, LED flashing yellow briefly with Connor's doing the same out of sight.

His identification comes back as **# 578 352 665** , **designation Luther** , reported missing from a construction site at the end of last year.

Connor is caught off guard when a notification surges up in his display: **_Match Found_ , location: memory bank**. **Loading file… [a TR400 stands next to the runaway AX400 sitting on a CyberLife crate, arms wrapped around the stolen YK500. And something about the three androids… rules out the possibility of being a coincidence that they are huddled so close to one another in front of a lit barrel as if they could take advantage of its heat.]**

**[ _They are together_ , Connor thought before turning away.]**

"This is Luther," Zlatko says and Connor forces his attention back to the human, blinking to dispel the images with more force than necessary. "And it can bend a steel bar with its bare hands, so don't try anything funny."

He avoids looking back to Luther and just nods.

The man turns to the staircase leading downwards, gesturing for him to follow. “I have some exhibit models that I can show you. They aren’t all for fighting and some are my projects, but I’m open for negotiation.”

Wood transitions to bare concrete as they descend and Connor is aware of the TR400 following him a few steps back, silent and unobtrusive, but by no means less threatening. The formation with him in the middle of the two does not escape his notice and he wonders if it is Zlatko's standard procedure or if the human is suspicious of something. So far, all the humans he interacted with within these ‘excursions’ have presumed on his humanity without batting an eye. But they all were used to regular androids, with no reason to suspect anything. Zlatko, on the other hand, made a job of identifying deviants.

 _I don’t like this_ , Daniel mutters again. **Stress levels: 46%**

Connor agrees wordlessly, flicking his system into alert mode.

Passing through a smaller door, they enter a small corridor whose right wall is covered with plastic sheeting over what a closer inspection reveals to be metal bars rudimentary fixated to the ceiling and floor, with planks nailed to the bottom half and mesh grids covering the rest. Faint, flickering light fails to properly illuminate what’s on the other side, beyond dark shapes. And it’s very clear this had been once just a large room before someone turned it into a gigantic prison.

No. Not a prison.

 _A cage_.

The smuggler takes a piece of wood resting against the wall and slams it against the bars, a loud _clang!_ resounding violently and there’s a series of scuffling noises, like several creatures stumbling in their haste to move away. Zlatko then pulls a key bundle from his pocket and unlocks the door. “Here, take a look. Don’t worry, I took their motive engines so they are slow as a three-legged puppy.”

Dreadful anticipation coils tension through his body and not allowing himself to hesitate, to falter, he takes a step closer and looks insid _—_

_Connor, wait—_

**-Alert: unknown connection d̷e̵t̸e̴c̶t̶**

H̸̢̭̦̦̽̕ E҉̧̗̖͙̂͞ L̴̨͖͍̎͡ P̶̧̟̦̈̇͡

H̶̰̣̳̪̺̹͔̩̥̭̆͋͝E̴̞̝̤͉̜͉̯̰͙͌̓̈́L̸̤͕̪̠̒́̾̋̾̑͜P̸͎͂̔̏̃̑̐̓̿̓

Ḩ̴̰̜̜̫̜̯̹͇̰̝̠̽ͅ ̶̼̠͖̯̀̔Ę̸̜̺̯͚̼̗͉̘̰̼͔̠̭̇̓͐̍͋̃̈͌ ̴̲̜̪̯͉̬̯͇̹̪̖̬̣̬͙̫́̑́̉̓͑̀͒̆̀͗̒͑̃̈́͛̍̇̌̌̃̃̚̚͝ͅL̶̝͔͎͇̹͉͇͕̞͙͊͆ ̷̨̨̢͈̻̘̺͇̱̪̪̪̀̔͒̇̃̌̍̃̌͌̿̀Ṕ̷̲͇͓̆̊͒̊̽̽̂͛͗͋̓́̍̍̿̕͝͝

H̷͈̭̳̜̟̳͍̟̘̃̊̅̑̋̒̑̈́̂̄̎̾͑́̾͛̚͠͝É̶̛̛̛̳̥̭̝̟̫̱͇̦̜̰̰̆̊̇͑̎̍͑̅̇͐̌͋͐̓̌̏̄̾̃̓̿̊̎̋̂̕̚̕͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝ͅL̶̡̧̡̨̧̨̡̧̡̛̛̦̙̰̜̜͎̣̦͈͎͚̠͚͍̜̭̯̗̖̜̖͖̖͇͉̘̲̤͎̣̜͔̥̳̫̩͙̲͎͕̥̗̘̳̺̼̟̞̼̼̜̠̰̯͚̫̤̗̘̺̩͙̩̠̮̲̥̤̦̜̞̫̝̟̠͖̫̟̞̾̊̍͊͛̂̿͌̀̏̿̾̋͐̊̈́̓̾͂͐̌͌̑͂͐̑̎̋͊͂̈̌̃̚̚͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͠͠P̷̨̡̧̨̨̡̛̤͇͕̥̲͖̯̤̰͕͎̙̳͚͎͎̟̬̝̗͓̻̩̭̤̤̠̲͇͈͓̗̠̰͍̗̦͈̫͖̺̳̼̩̪͖̩͔̬̝̯̻̯̱̯̠̞̹̘̩̳͉̘̩͕̠̮̹̳̞̝̟͇̹̘͎̟͓̈̇̀̊͊͗̊̆̄̐͗͊̃̓̈́͂͊̎̽̅̈́̔̀̒̂̀̿͂͛̓͗̈́̓̉͑͐͒͋̃͛̔̐̈́̐̿̋̕̚͜͜͜͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅ

H̵̛͔̤͈̮̺̗̮̰͇̭͚̻̠̘̞͎͍̃͌̔̈́̏̀̈́͆̊̈́̈́ͅ ̴̨̢͚̲̠̙̰̫̙͕̱̟͖̯̥̼͖̳̘̂̆̾̌̍̆̄́͒͗̿͂̐͊̎̽̈́̐̌̋̈͑̉̕̚͜͝͠ͅ ̷̛̬̙̦̗͍͈͔̤̺̍͛͑̔̿̑̈̄̓̈́̏͊̓͗̾̽̎̅̀̃̔͠Ė̶̡̧̠͔̺̞͓̬̬̰̗͓̣̰̦̱̠̉̃̂̎̉̉̕͜ͅͅ ̶̰͎͚͚̫̳̣̭͍̤͙͚̯̜̮̥̯̗̰̝̯̞̖͒͐͌̊̒͆́͛͐͘͜͜͜ͅ ̴̡̨̧̨̨̢̨̛̩̳͙̟͉͓̭̗͎͙̳͕̮̈̒͋͌͆͑̇̍̊̃͑͘L̸̳̩͈͎͖̦̘̫̺͖̲̦̮̭͇̿̍̾̑̐̅̍̑̒̂̅̄͒̉̀̚ͅ ̶̡̨̹̝̰̫̪̫͙̹̗̟̖͐̋ ̸̢͉̩̜͎̖̜͕̜̺̫̮̻̩̭̲̟͇̤̈͋̏̃́̾̍͋̉̌̅͆̈̂̎͌͆̍͂͜͜͝P̶̧̨͓͇̺͖̱̝͕͇͕̬̺̰̝̓̅̑͑̈̂̈́͐̉̕

**H̸̡̛̛̦̝͉̯͗͛̇͛̅̒͌̆̀̓̿̓̇͐͗͗͗̌̀̏͑͌̍̇̊̇̌͂͑͆̊̓̈́͗͆̌̽́̅͗̕̚̚̚͘̚̕̕͝͝͠͝ ̵̨̡̛͓͚͍̲̜̣̹̼̬͍̼̫̥̝̟̮̭̹̙͕͈̫̟̤͙̱̹̤͐͂̇̈́̽͒͆̐̽̅̄͆̋͒̒̿̉͋̈́́͂̔̈́̔̒͛̆̐͊̚̕͝͝͝͠ ̸̢̨̧̡̡̧̧̧̢̛̤̻̘̖̖͎͎̙͙̼̗̜̣̫̜̬̬͔͈̥͔̪̩̘̥̪͕̺̜̥̝̟͍̳̲̗̭̲̪̗̹̬͓̿̔́͆͆͊̒͗̏̓̏͋͋̃̈́̑͆̌̌̍́̌̓͐͊̌̂͒͘͘͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅ ̴̢̢̧̡̨̢̧̡̢̡̛̛̤̤͓͔̫̼̞̹̱̞̳͕̖̗̮̪͎̗͔͈͉̫̭̘̲̰̹̘̣̘̼̮͔̘̤̪̞̱͓̰̬̙͖̮̯̗͔̲͎͎͒̏̊̅͊͛́̔͋̄͛̐͐̈́̔̒͆̏͑̅̽͛͑͗̈͊̀͒̈́̇̋̿̽͋͋̾̐̇̑̂̆̏͘͘͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅȆ̸̡̧̨̨̨̢̢̪̲̝̣̘͎͙̰̪͙̹̲̮̮̣͙̩̙͇̹̳͔͇̺͖͖͙͓̞̹̩̙̝͉̹̠͚̯̠͎̠̳̝̦̝̩̗̜̮̟̩̫́̀̑͒ͅͅͅ ̸̡̢̨̛̦̻̟̠͎̘̰̠̞̮̭̣̹̯̙̩̜̩̩͇͍̘͚̝͉̭̮̠̤̦̭͉̜̲̲͋̓̇̂̅̌̉̒̌̚̚̚͜͜͜ͅ ̶̨̰̠̟̫͉̝̬̣͔̜̺̗͎̞͈̱̯̺̜͉̝̱̀͐̑̽͋͆̏͗͗̈́̇̒̾̀͒͑̀͊͒̉̌͒̊̃̓̍̂̎̅͂̓͋͑͗̂͛́̊̽́͗̉̂̽́͆͒̂̉̎͊̚͘̚͠ ̸̨̡̡̢̨̛̛̛̙͇͇̥͕̺̯̱̮͙̥͍̣̪͎͚̼̭̳͎̞̟͎̙̼̖͚͍̙̮͖͓̪̟̬̩̮̲̤͎̠̼̺͖͍̣̙̞̬͍͓͕̗̘͚͇̳̞̹̥͖̠̭̆͑̅̃̂̃̎̃́̃̐̇͗͐͌̓̌͛̆̽̇̾̾̈́̌͐̿̽̃͋̏͆̈͛̎̑̿̈́̏̄̃̊͑̏͐͗̏͘͘̕͘̕͝͝͝͝L̷͚̯̥̼̫̰̰͓̥̘͕̣̞̩̤̣̖̓͆̐̄̓̒̐͌̃̀̕͘̕͜ͅ ̷̢̨̳̫̘͉̲̦͎͍̙̳̯̠̘̗̬͔̝̗̈́̐̀͊̓̎̊̋̔̊ ̸̡̡̧͎̙̞̣̥͕͙͉̼͔̻͉̘̟͎̼͖̱̮͓̭̩͈̫̺͍̻̦̱̟̜̲̪̫̱̼̹̩̘̰̩̹̣̗̭̰̞̼̮̰̻̋̏͋̐̍̃̈̒͊̓̒̎̑̋̉͊̂̀̿̿͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅ ̶̨̢̺̺͖͚̘̼̦͓͎̜̳̼̎̓͂̏̈́̂̂̓͋͗̒́̎̓̒̋̽̌͐͛̓̏̿̇̄̄̂́̅̈́̊̑̽̇̾̆̂̃̕̕̕͜͠͠͝ͅͅP̴̨̧̧̡̡̡̨̛̛̯͕̜̜̙͈̳̠̜̠̠̺̲̘̩̩̞̘͕͕̩̖͓̬͇͓̩͖̫̩̰͚͎̹̟̤͈̪͎̬̟̲̰̦͕̞̞̟̥͔̈́̏͊̑͐̐̇̌̒̉̿̉̍̓̽̓̈́̈́̔̄̿̅̿͑́͒̒͋̊̒̄̈́͌̅̂͊̐̏̀̓̈͊͐̌̿̏͘̚̚̕̕̚͜͜͠ͅͅͅ**

H̷̡̨̡̡̨̡̛̩͖͔̠̳̺̖̩̭͇͈͖͇̣̬̦̼̯̼̯̗̥̥͚̲̠̫̦̗̣̣͓̗͉̬̜̲̩͚͔͎̞̘̗̝̦̯̗͚͉̯̞̲͖̭̤͍̻̤͍̺̙͉̱̹̝̮͚̤̙͓̯͓̘͙̭̯̲͈̩̲͇̙̰̲̩̱̟̤̪̞̱̬̫̖̻͙͓̟̼̥̹̆̐̈́̆͑̋̈́̽̽͑̀̊̆̎̃̅̇͆̏̽͆̄̍̃̅͌̇͂̒̌̾͑̈́͋̓͑͐͗͛̑̅̒̊͋̀͊̀̇͗́̉͂̽̿̅̾͊̏̆̑̇̽̍̑̍͑͆̈́̈̓̄̉̋̏̎͊̐͒̄̎̑̄͆̇̇̈́̿̈́̿̋̈́̾̊͂̒̒̾̀́̈́͆̀͊̈́̅̈́̎̿͆̓̽̄̌̉́̽̀̈́̚̕̕͘͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝Ẻ̷̢̡̨̧̨̢̢̡̨̨̡̨̨̡̡̢̧̨̧̦͔̘̮͓̗̙̫̬͈̠͍̺̘̖̞͙̳͉̣̯͖͙̱̤̠͖̫̱̫̜̳̟̺̖̩͙͙̖̭̺͉͈̣̦̖̲̹̪͎̹̣͓͖̗̙͖̩̘͉͈͎̰͕̣͔̳̠̳͓̱̯̻͉̲͍̹͇̼̣̥̦̳͔̬̫̻͍͈̪͕̘̺̫̯̗̺͚̗͎̹̪͉̮̣̪̠̠͈̘̹͖͔̦͚͇̹̱̮̦̜͙̝̠͍̱͚̱̥̺͙̯̞̭̭̻̯̣̩̻̟͎͍̪͎̱̱͕̻̪̩̖͍̮̠̮̫̞̝͉̗̗͇̹̣̙̰̦̪̜͍̗̪̫̙̙̻̼̲̖͔̮̖̻̠̬̠̳̼̤̱͕͕͙͈͔͍̬͔͔̮̱̫͔̣̹͍̮͎̬̯̗̯̥̤͙͇̲͓̤̙͉͉͚͎͇̖͈̥̙͎͈̗̰͎̤̤̣̫̣͍̺̩̭̙̄̀̒̅͋̈̉͊̈́͊̽̈́̽̊͌̓̈̑̒͂͑͗͑͛͑͒͆̅̾̑̒̓͊̌̇̇͗̈͐͑̍͊̉̊͐͑̍̓͛̓̈́͗̾̈́̌͛͒͐̍̌͗̈̚̕̚͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝ͅL̵̡̡̨̨̨̡̨̢̧̺̻͈̤͓͖̼̼̻̹̖̖͉̠̖̘̙̙̼̼̭͍͚̗̮͔̫̟̳͈͉̟̜͍̠̫͔͙̥̞̜̦͔̻̣̥̩̹͔̫̙̩̺̭̪͈̥̞̮̹̹̣̗̣͉̮̗̼̩͈̲̯̣̩̣̼̜͇̹̩̥̯͔̯̲̫͇̖̦̣̼̲̅̓̑̿̿̎̊̅̑̑͒̂̃̾͑̊̾̽̑͂̉̔̾̃͑͑̓͋͛̽͛̐̾̒̿͐̓͑̎̀̈́̔͛̎́̆́̎͐͑̈́̇̓͑͊̽͑͒̈́̇̉̈́̄̈́̎͗͌͆̈́͒͘͘̕͘̚͘̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͝͝͠͠ͅͅP̴̧̨̡̡̧̢̢̡̨̨̡̢̡̢̨̛̛̛̛͙̪̭͖̯̬̲̬̹̜͔͔͇̟͉̮̟̬̼̗͈̙͍͉̗̦͚̣̖̯̣̳̯̹̠͚̭͔̮͍̤̬̘̜̝̯̖̝̲̞͓̟̟͍̫̦͎̪̼̭̖̱͙̺̳̙̭̣͎͔̬̜̫̗̗̙̺̺̭̠̟̗̖̤̗̥̬̜͇̹̯̻̻͈͕̞̗̫͓̝̺͕̟̳͙̺̜̫̳͍͕̝͈̳͉̥̼̭̫̬̟̗͔͖̣͎̳͍̻̮̫̩̰̙̭̣̹̘̜̫̯̭̮̭̻̹̞̙̘͓̱͈͓̰͍̜̯̪̼̭̗̱̥̣̬̣͎̜̲̣͎͍̱͚͎̭̬͙̝͚͑̈́̄̉̈̾͌̇͋̓̅̐̔̓̓̊͛̈́͐̂̏̓̓̌̇̇͐̅̓͑̈́̄͊̀̅͌̎͂̓̾̀̾͆̑̀̿̍̓̍̂̃͛̔͋͐͐̑̀̋͗̃̉̀̅̍̑̎̈́̏̍̾̌̽̏̍̇͊̃̄̿̃͂̃̇͗̈́̌̆̅́̓̆̽̆̽̎̎̌̒̍͛̌̈̓͊̄̉̈́͂̂̋͛͐̉̓̆̃̐͛͌̅̌̿̐͒̂̏̎̕̚͘͘̕̕̕͘̕͘̕͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅ

H̴̸̷̴̶̷̴̵̶̴̷̴̶̴̷̷̷̷̵̴̷̸̴̵̵̷̸̵̵̴̸̷̶̵̷̶̶̴̸̶̶̴̶̵̵̶̶̸̴̶̷̶̶̸̸̶̷̷̴̵̵̶̨̧̢̢̧̢̧̧̡̨̢̧̧̡̡̡̡̧̡̨̢̧̨̢̡̢̨̧̡̡̡̢̡̨̡̡̡̢̡̧̨̢̨̨̧̧̧̢̨̢̢̧̢̡̢̢̨̨̨̡̧̢̧̨̡̡̢̢̢̢̧̨̡̢̡̡̡̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͍̜̺̙̠̥͓̫̜̺͖̩͎͓͖̬̻̖̩͕͓̙̩̼̟̱̟̥͙̱̲̜̰͉̭̖̹̳̫̬̠̮̲̖̺͈̞͖͓̻͎̝͕̪̱͚̬̥̩̯̱͓̯̜̘̩̪͔̩̲̱̺̞̗̘̮̠̦̝̤̮̤͚͉̬͎̣͙̰̘̣̣̩͇͕̠̣̻͖͇̭͎̪͙̙͕̬̲̯̯̳̖͕̞̟̬̼͇̙͉̠͓͇͖͓͍͎̲̯̩͎̥̟̲̤̠͍̪̩̥͉̭͓̳̹͈̭̩͖͉̙̺̱̭̦̪̩̥̭̫͓̼̱̤̗̼͕̱͙͖̤͚̥͇̮̞͚͍̥̳̥̮̦̜̜͓͖̰̜͕̲͓̦͚̗̬̣̤̥̲̺͎̲̪̱͎̻͖͚̳͚͎͎͈͖̖͈̩̣̥̖̲̱̬̪̖͙̹̼͔̬͔̬̮̱̭̻͖̝̝̣̱̻̰͉͖̺̠͈̝̲̤̘̱̗͍̤̦͉̯̫̙̻̫̮̱̲̳̤̠̼̻̭̰̗͇̯̜̹̙̱̙͇̠̣͚̘̙̩͇̗͍̥̻̻̬͎̻̼̜̥̹̦͎͈̥̺̤̝̰͙̻̬̪̱̖͖͈̞̩̩̮̖̬̠̹̫͈͚̗̗̜̭͈͍͖̣͈̺̘͇̫̫͍̭̳̩͖̺͔͍̬̳̳͙̟͚̪̜̟̼̦̘̱̰̮̥̯̼̯̖̠͙̯̳̬̪̝̙͔͈͙̖͕̪̩̗̦̘̹͓͇̰͈̻͚̪͙̭͇͓͙͖̝̗̪̱͓̮̞͕̠̬̲̦̲̰͉̼̫̱̭̱̘͉̯̙̙̬͍͇̼͕̺̯̦̥̯̙̪͕̟̟͔͎̳̙͚͍̪̪̰͚̣̘̞̤͓̬͎̘͍̬̞̦̯̳͙̻̗̥̭̖̲̬̙̟̗̬̜̲̝̙͔͈̫͍̰̞̦͍̹̥̼̲̼͇̣̘͉̝͔͇̙̠̩̮͈͕͍̬̘̥̳̪͉̖̖̪͍̗͍̭̖̪̜͉̲̼̼̠̝̙͈͎̣̮̮̣̠̖̝̘̝̻̤͓̖̟̩̭̪̣̲̣̹̞̟͉̬̫͍̰͉̺͈̖̠͔̙̹͖̯̥̱̤̰̱̺̬̦͖͓̞͔̞̲̖̮̮̩̹͕̝̹̟͎͚̳̦̮̦͓̗̥̦̖͔̺̦̙̺̹̹͈̙͇̞̬͖̬̣̝͈̝̻̱̭̪͎͇̖̯̭̠͎͚͇͈̜̣͉͕̖͓̳̥͇͉̦̻̪̲͇̼͚̟̗͚͈̟͖̖̘̯̜͈̬͙̼̳̞̝͂̑̾̎̌͛̄̃̐͒̐̇͆̈́͗͂̀̑̈́̎͑́͊̈̌̉͗͗̈́́̋̔͂̂̇̐͋͛̓̍͛̀͌́͌͑̓̇͒̿͐͐͂̈́̌̒͛̄́͒̿̓̓͗͑͒̎̀́̄̏͛̓̔̈́̐̉̓̒̾͊̂̐̑͆̅͊̅́̐̓͆̉̒͗͑͗̈͛̒̎̾͌̔̏̄͋̍͋̏̏̂́͗͛́̑̉͗̃̏̀͑̈́̄̆̍̇̌͌̏̆͑̊̽̾͌̌̈́̔̄͐̌̅̆̆̂͗̽̈́̑͆̑̈́̈́̀̀̏̒̒̐̑͆̉̽̏͌̈́̈́̃͆̓̌̈́̓̌̊͐̉̿̎͊̇͑̄͂̈́̓̓̈̃̋̑̈̂͆̿̓͑̏̈̽̃̓̽͒̓̈́̌̓͛͌͂̽̿̏͗͑̄͒̅̍͂̈̇̑̔̈̿̒͐̇͂̆̉͆̾̍̈̍̐͆͐͒̌͐̿͑̔̓͛̀̾͆͑̄̄̒͒͐̍͑̐̂͂͒̂͗͂̇̈́͒̋͛̈̽̈́̌̄͗́́͋̈̂̈́͐̆̀̿̓͂̑̇̈́̑͐͋́͋͐͂͗̓̋͛̌̊͊̀̓͗̄̔͐̄̀̂̑͐̌̆̈́̒͊̈́́͋̂͋̄̓͛̊̌̈̀̈́̓͒̊̀̎̃̓̈́̍̎͑̈́͐̆͌͐͐̎̉͒̆̏̏̋͑͊͒̇̿͋̂̔̅̆͑̃̔̓̿̈́̏̃͌̒̈́̉̆̏̔̈́͒̈̉̃́͗͊̈́̏̍́̍̌͊̎̑͐̎̏͐̍̇̑̓̄̑̌̈́̌̀̓͌̇̊̈́̃̇̈́̂̄͗̊̐̇̌͊̈́͛̿̆̅͑̅͂̀͌̿̊̊̈́̇̄̅͒͒̿̈́̉̐̍̉̔̾̓͒̄̇̆̅̏̔̌̈̂̏͆̅̽͋̓̾̅͋̈́̍̈́͋̽̀̌̅̂̎̉̆̀͆̒̍͛̃̂̈́͂̏̈́͛̆͗̎̅̑͂͊͑͋̅̓͐̊̅̍̾̈́̆̈́̀̿͒̌̈́̓͂̂̄͆̐̂̃̇͛̋̈́̊̋̿̅̾̉̅̋̎̽̏̔̿̊̿̿̊̽̓̓̀̂̐̍̓̑̎͗̒̀̂̍͊͆̈͐̐͌̑͐̍̉̄̈́͒̈́̈́͊̈́̆͆̍͂̿̋̊̇͊̑͗͌̃̔͋̉͌̂̐̽̾̍́̌̈́͂͒̀̈̓̏͑̍̓̔̄̃̓͒͋͋̈̂̈́̈́͆̈́̾̀̋͗̾̊̅̓̒̉̏̑̀͐̌́̎̆̔͛͑̽̓̐̊̉͛̒̏̋͂̋̽̉́̂́͆̅͗̈́̔͗̍͆͋̏͗̾̾͆̎̋̒̾̔̋̍̾̐̍̔̅̆̾͛͌̐̐͛͒͋̃͐̈́̈́̃̾̾̍̑̈̃̎̐̈̒̒̄̋̒̄̅͐͋͋́͊̒̃̍̃͆͑͆̈͑̇̈̒̐̒̎͗̈́̾̎̏͑̚̕͘̚͘͘̕͘̕͘̚͘͘̚̚̚̕̕͘͘̚̕̕̚͘̕̚̚̚̚͘͘̚̕̕̕͘̚̕̕̕̚̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ ̴̵̸̸̵̷̶̴̷̷̸̸̶̷̸̴̸̵̷̴̵̸̷̶̶̶̵̴̸̶̶̶̷̷̶̴̸̷̵̵̴̶̴̸̵̸̵̷̷̴̵̷̴̸̵̶̶̷̵̸̶̶̵̴̵̵̸̶̸̢̢̡̡̢̡̡̨̢̡̡̡̡̨̡̨̡̡̡̨̡̨̧̡̡̡̧̧̨̨̨̨̢̧̧̨̡̧̨̨̧̡̡̧̢̡̨̢̨̢̢̨̡̢̨̢̧̡̨̡̡̧̨̧̡̧̢̨̢̢̡̨̡̢̨̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛͎͍͕̹͓̯̗͚͍̙̹̥̲̠͕̦̳̫͙͇̣͕͉̟̥̘̭͍̪͎̥͔̬̮̮̟͔̪̪͔̖̞̖͇͉̥͕̗̹̝̯͚̜̲̝͎͓͉̟͈̤̦̤̲̖͈̯͕̮͕͍̦̫͇̹̹͇̫̮̫̼͎͍̻̥̳͚̘͖͉͎̦̻̰͖̮̙̦̫͙̲͈͇̰̣̦̲̰̹̩̱̼͓͙̻̦̘̯̥̦͇͔̼͚̫̟̳͙̦͈̘͉̘̬̤̬͈͇͚͙̟͓̯̩̘̞̬̟̠̙̰̠̥̜͈̲̤̳̳̹͓̝͓̺͔̱̩̭̩̭͍͈̭̯̙̦̝̗̤̜̜̰̣̺̖̰̣̭̹̳̝̱̟͎̰̖̰̝̼̥̭̖͕̬̼͔͚͕͔̳̮̲̭̣̖͉͉͍̞̙̱͔̹͇͖̫͇̜͎͔̦͎̦̲̥̪̘͖̤̠͓͍̲̞̳̟̬̮̥͇͎͇̱̲̲͓͙̞̘̼̞͇̘̦͓͉̖͍̖̖̙̻̲͙̖̲̼̦̰͓̫̹̺̟͓͙̹͚̗̝̲̮̣̼͈̮͍̣̪̼̖͕̳̥̩̠̣̰͎͉͖̮̩̼̦̗̺̗͓̻̳͇͎̼͙̠̦̣̩͖̩̘̟͙̺̫̰̻͕̗͉̘̣̥̺̭̘͕̤͉̪͍̦̼̠̰̙͔̬̗̙̺̳̟̮͔̳͓̠̯̭͓̫͖͍̭̦̩̟͉̬͈̝̺͚̘̹̼̟̥̙͕̤̫̩͈̫̩̗͚̖̺̼̜̮͖̲̰̲̹̲̟̺̲͙͈̻̠̦̬̞̙̗͔͎̱̣͓͓̠͍͚̪͚͍̼͚̣̬͚͈̱̹̰͙͍̲̪̖̟̠̮͈̜̥͚̙̪̦͈̦̪̙͙̻͈̖͍̤̝͇͍͖̠̞̣̳͓̹͙̝̤̘̩̣̺͍̳̙͎͖̯̙̯̜̹͙̯̯̹̥͖̲̜͓͚͕̟͔͔̜̭͈͖͈̞̙̲̼̘̱͚̜̬̫͇̥̞̥̭̼̤̭̼̮̟͉͎͍͖̦͍̺̬̼̟̜̹̫͔͍͖̩̩̠͖̙̟͚̫̙͖̜̙͉̘̟̲͍̪̭̻͔̪̘̮̜̞̺͚̥̫͎̜̞̲͔̱͚͖͙̝̬̦͎̥͎̭̘̹̩̼̳̟͖̘̮̟͇̥̺̭̱̮̗͔̹̯̤̭̝̤̮̹͉̟̩͖̟̞̜̦̼̩͚̠̙͈͚̤̹̜̝͈̹̟̗͕̙̫͉̺͎̹̠͍̗̲̟̖̠͓͈͖͚̩̦̦̟̫͔͎̜̬̟̫͍̺̩͔̮̪͔̟̥͔̳̗̹̬̥̙̱̜̼̹͇̳̘̜̙̗̤̥̲͖͔̝͙̹͍̟͈̝̖͙̻̝̞̟̤͍͚͈̥͈͎̻̺̹̱̫̱͎̻̟̺͚̭̥̪̯̯̟̲͚̰̘̹͈̩̗̞̤̹͇̥̲͖̝̭͉̦̣̲̲̳͖̪̗̮̝͚̘̺̠͆̐̊̉̾́͑̒̏̂̍̓̿̃̑̆̀̓̒̌͂̔̏̓̏̿̄͒̈́̆̿̓̆͋̾̓̿̇͐͌̈́̋̀̊̾̊̋͒̿̾̓͐͗̈̈́̓͒̉͊͌̒͂̒̏̃͗̇̂̾͐̾̊͛̌͒̈́͊̐̍̽͑̽̀̈́̄̋̽́̃͊̉̍̈́̑̉́̂̅͆͒̉̐͂̋̃͊̾̔̇̃͋̔̔̓͂̅̋̈́̒͗̎̾̈́̅̆͆̄̆̃̐̒́̒́̈́̊̔͋͑̂̏̄̄͒͛͂̋̍̿̇́̽̏̃͆͊̊͂͑̑̎̅̃̀̿̾́͑̇͐̂̍̎̅̎̃̐̐̈́̽̊̇̔̄͛̆͌͑́̄̐͑̋̀̌̈̌̽̈́̐̿̑̓̓͐̋̉͒̇͆̒̄̐̍̇̎͂̏̏̌̂̉̋̈́̂͑̾̃͗̅̑̍̉̔̐̓͐̒͒̉̽͂̿̍̏̌̈́͑̅̒͒̾̆̉̒̄͌̄͆͒̌̓̂̀͗̆̅̈́̈̎̿̒͗̄̆͗̉̾̒̇̃̀͑̿́̉͗̇͑̈́͛͋́̍̋̎͐̀̉͋̿͛̈͋́̀͋̆̑̋͐̆̍̀̃͊͂͊̈́̑̈́̊̐̋͛͌́͂̾̿̒̒̂̿̏̋̅͌̀͒̌͊̄͊͋͗̔͋̈́̑̈́̐̈́͌̉̏̀́̂͂̔̋͛́́̊̍̅̏̀́̒̒̓̒̏̒́̊͐͋̔̍͒̊̏̋̈́͑͐̐̆̅̇͗̾͒͛͂̊͒̆̿̐̍̑̈͛̓͌͛̅̏͐̊̊̽̋͌̎̌̆̑͌̽̑̈̔̎͊̃̋̿͑̄͗͗́̓̋̈́̄͂̃̐̐͒͐̈́̔̆̑̈͆͊̐͐̈̆͑̽́̅̋̓̌̔͊̃̅̇̉̌͌̒̔̄͆̏̌͋͌̏͐̓̃͂͋̿͗̈́̔̔̽̍͌̏͛̈́̑͆͆̽̍̊̈̌̎͗͂̇͑͐̊͐̎̅̓̊͑̈͗̄̃́̍̔̿̈͒͛̂̉͛͒̉͗̄̏͛̾̍̾͂͒̍͂̂͌̄̇̉͆̍͊͑̿̋̎̊̃̄̄̎̈̈́̊̎͗̋͆͐̉̄̃̓̓̓̉͆͂̒̈́̂̃͂̌̾͋͐̌̏͐̽́͆͋̈́̐̽̍̈́͂̐̓̎̈́͑̂̆͂͂̊̽̆̀̊͋̈́̉̂̽̈́̐̅͗̈́̏͐͗̍̍̾̑̓͆͆̌̑̉̃͗̈́́̍̾̃̂́͊̑̉͋͊̈́̉̅̾̆̽̅̓̅͋̍̋̃͛̈̆̌̈́̄̾͆͋̀̿̽̄̔͑͂̊͒͊̆͐̔̐͒̿̊̈͑̈́͛͐̓̉͂̊͛̓́̈́̔͌̿̉̆̈͒̋̅̈́̎̃̽͐̇̏͋͗̔̿͂͆̓͋̎͋̂͐͊͒͗̋̈͊̋͛͆̔̌́͛̑̿̿̆̂̄̌̈́͗́̐̄͊̅̅̍̅͆̓̋̀̋̈̅̄̓͛̑̑̄͒̓̃͆̔̾̃̀̑͒̈́̎̍̒́͆̿͊̈͒̃̊̑̚̕̚̚̕̚̚̚̕̚̕̚̚͘͘͘̚̕̕̚͘̕̕͘͘̕̕͘͘͘̕̚̕̚͘͘̕̕͘͘̚̚͘͘͘̚͘̚̕̚͘̚̚̚̕̚̚̕͘͘͘͘̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ

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H̶̶̵̵̸̸̸̶̷̴̴̸̶̶̶̷̨̨̧̢̧̨̢̨̢͇͈͇̩̖̞̹͚͔͉̯̞̪̙̞̠̖̲̮̙͇̭̗̭͍̗͙̦̠̦͉̻͖͉͇̰͇̗̱͖̣͖̠͎̞̙͉͈̙̘̳̠̭̣̣͓̘̪̭̪̹̻̺̲̩̹̠̻̹̖̭̖͙̳͇͔̣̟̳͔̻̼̮̘̘̹̦͇͍̤͓̞̳̩͙̬̹̲̥̠͖̗͈͖͓̦̜̪̳̞̭̞̤̲̼̫̳͔̬͕̗̬̽͒̅̉̽̈́̐͂̈́͑̀͌̆̃̈́̌͗͌͂̅̿̊͌͋͂̍̋̓̄̇̑̐͑̒̃̓̓͑̓͋̃͛̐̆̊̏̋͊̉̇̋͆̀̅̓͛̿̀̋͒͗̃̇̃̈̋͌̉̈́͑̏̃̋̃̊̓͌̅̾̄̍̉̈̓̂͐̇̅̔͒͒̎̾̌͛͋̈́̇͒̊̐̓̐̈́̚͘̕͘͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠ͅͅͅE̴̴̵̸̵̶̸̵̸̷̶̴̵̶̷̡̡̡̡̨̢̛̛͈͇̞̯͈̦͕̩͙̦̻̞̳̣̠͈͈̳͎̺̳̟͖͚͙̮͔̗̯͖̼̝̘̹͔͎̠̯͖̫̩̞̰̤̱̖̞̮͕̞̮̝̩͚͈̤̜̤̥͉̺̫̯̺̺̪̭̩̭̜͉̻͈̭̥̘̗̯̘̘͚̜͇͉̮̘̰̫̞͇̲̠̱̬͕̯̲̣̪̠̻͔̰̱͙̤̪̦̱̠͓̬̣͂͌̉̆̾̎̈͋̓̌̍̒͐̒̐̽̑̋̆̿͌͐̔̔̎̏͑̌̍̾̆͗̓̓̐̍̓̇̒̽̽́̌̎̈́̓̔͛͆̒̎̑̎͌̓͂̉͌͋̃̍̊͊̓̎̈́̈́͒̀̓̎̉͊̓̌͊̿͌̓͂̓̈́̄͂̽͐̔̍̈̏̈́͋̆̽̅̉̉̓̏̅͆͋̉̇͒̒̌̓̎̉͗͆̍͗̉̽̾̂͌͋̈͑̕̕͘̚̚͘͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅĻ̴̸̸̶̷̵̵̷̷̸̵̸̶̴̡̡̡̧̧̢̧̢̛̛̪̼͈̤̮̬͉͔̲̪͕̹̩͕̜̬̜̭̗͚͕̼̖̠̤̰͖̙͚͔̱̬̼̩͚̩̤̞̯̣̥̥͕̺̜̥͇̥̝̭̗̮͈͓͎̥̟̩͎̣̬̮͙̤̜͖̞̯̭̪͎̩̟͙̹̤̖̞͇̮͇̪͙̰̜̮̣͚͚͕̭̟̭̺̟̟̱̖̫̪̻͕̮͇̪̥͈̯̹̠̦̰̗̣̟̽̿͛̅̈͛̌̒̾͊̍̒́̈́͛̎͌̇̒̆̐͆̅̈́̾̋͊̍̊̃̂̋̾̈́̈́͛̌̑̉̅̽͌̍̌̓̔̔̔̅̏̑͆͗͗̽͋̏̔͛̈͗̈̈́͆̌̏̊̒̅͋̔̈́͌̇̈́̐̏̓̆̈́̕̚̕͘̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅP̴̸̸̴̵̷̴̶̶̶̴̶̵̷̡̧̨̡̧̨̨̧̨̡̛̞̗̩̮̥̦̞̜͇̟̝͉͎͉͖̯͔͕̭͎̭̼̙̗̪̳̫͚̫̞̺͓͖̳͙̯͎̹̞̻̼̬͕̤̟̫̤͕͚̯̪̹͇͎̱͎̤̳̮̯̠̬̰̺̝͓̺̟̠̤͍̬̹̪̙̮̠̦̪͉̮̩̤̠͉̯̱̬̬̥̱͓̞̱̪̳̙͈͎̹̤̥͒̈͊̄̽͆̐̒͗͊̔̿̂̇̓̋͂͑͂͒͒͐̔̐̏̿́͐̌̑̃͂̅̀͆̿̃͆̃̌̏̌͌̊̀̔̑̂̀̐̈́̅͋̈́̍͑̉͋̓͋͆̐͐̈͛̈́͆̓̏̅̄̐̓̔̿̉̋̿̍̋̓̓̌͗̇̂̄͐͘̚͘͘͘̚̕̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅ

Ḩ̶̢̢̨̨̧̨̡̢̢̧̨̨̡̧̧̡̧̛̛̤̜̳̺̱͉͖̠͇̟͎͕͙̝̪͍̲̻̫͓͕̮͈̙̰̳̲͚̳̘͔̩̣͈̼̩͎̝̘̥̼̤̹̮͈͕̲̗̟̮͈͚̰̼̗̩͙̞͈̼̬̮̞͍͖̘̫̩̰̣̮̲̱̞̰̰̩͉̰̝̲̗̦̖̗͙̮͔̥̺͖͔̤̻̺͖̼͈͖̰̘̰̠͔͍̣͇̝̘̣͕͈̦̠̳̰̞͓̟̺͖̘̳͎̗̲̗͚͇̪̰̫̪̟̣̤̜̹͎͓͓̩̤̟͓̬͙̪̗̳̥̼̪̟̘̩̻̼̰̼̳͇̬͖̠͙̹͇̜̜̠̓̀̏̒͑̎͋͊͊̍̾̋̓̿̔̾͌̐̓̒̌͋̓͛͋̄̈́̉͊̆̾̾̑̇̆̒̂̑̎̑̒̅̽͒͒͒̽͂̎̓̇̎̏̏̅̏̈̈́̈́͂̔̔̈́̊͊̀̊͊͗́̿͆̈́̏͘̚̕̚͘͘̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅ ̴̩̺͈̞͇̬̼͂̋͗͆̃͋̀͐̋̊͂̀̇̂̿̉̄̑͌̒̓̏̄̃͘͝͠ ̶̧̧̢̢̨̧̡̢̢̡̨̧̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̖̺͓̭͓̪̳̰̫͔̙͈̟̥̘̻̘͔̳̼̘͍͙͚̠͕̮͕͇͓͎͍̺̙̞̺̟̰͔̰̯̫̻̱̗͙̙̲̟̞͙͕̰̩͓̮̪͈͙̤͇̖̘͎̪͔̹̟̦͍̥̝̤͈͎̪̫̘̫̲̙͓̬̟̪̖̰̫̦͈̲̬̲̠͇̯͎̼͉̪̘̯̯̺̲͙͖͈̺͍͔̦̲̮̗̝̝̙̰̭̲͚̫̫͇͖̩͖̱͍̰͇̙͓͉̫̤̣̞̗͓͓̦̤̬͍̩̘̅̾͌́̃͆͑̒̿̈́̃̉͒͋́̒͌̈̑̈͑̌̈̊́̊̆̈́͗̃̾̒̀̅̿͛͛̿̽̂͆͌̐̽̽̇͐̓̋̓̌̂͊̍̈́͛͐͆͆͌͌̇̉̓̆̈̍̀͌̀̍̿̊̆̽̈́̋̋̿̍̆͊͑̋͐͆̈́̄͌͛͑̓̈́̽͒̂́͊̎͌̑͆̋̓͒̀̅͐͑̎͋͘͘̕̚̕̕͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅ ̵̢̢̨̨̢̢̨̡̢̨̨̢̢̧̡̡̧̡̨̧̡̡̢̛̛̛̛̠̲̪͖̯̯̼͇͍͓̥͙͖̺̫̦͕̰̜̹̪̱̞͉̱͈̟͕̩͍̮̼͔͙̫͚̳͍̮̙̬͈̹̬̻͍͇̲̭̟̬̯̻̻͎͙̘̩̥̲̬̻̳̠̭͉̝̱̦͍̣̖̯͇̖̳̺̟̙̠͚̺͎͓̠͉̗͎͈̜̬̱̥̯̣͇̙̠͉͖̻͓̣̰̭̤̤͓̜̣̘̦̺͈̟̯̱͇̘͖̥̘͚̳̺͓̟̞̱̦̥͉̦̤̩̳̼͖͓̹̟̙͈͙̼͍͉̰͚̥͖̦̯̬͖̤̺̣̺͖̘̙̬̮̭̖̼̲̗͎͎̘͉̱̫͚̟͕̝̻͐̈̒̈́͗̇̒̀̂͋̓͋͊́͋̒̌̀͌̋͒̾̃̊͆̌̓͛͐̒͌͑̔̌̈́͐̃̏̋̆͆̎̅͆̄̓̃̅̍͆͌̋̅̍͛̑̐̋̈́̋̄͑̎͑̉̾͌̎̈́̄̑͆̈̂͋͆̏̓̓͐́̓̈́̓̍̑͌̈́̇̑̌̒͆́̍͌̾̔̀͗̽͌̑͆̒̐͋̾͛̽̌͋̈́̆̏͋̂̌̄̓̈́̈́̂͋͛̾̄́̎̽̏̆͆̊̃̀͌̏̉̏͑̓͛̓̆̓͑̑̄̄͘̚̕̕̕̚̕̚̕͘̚̚̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅÊ̴̡̧̨̨̨̧̢̢̛̛̛̛̦̟̤̙̯͇̝͉̖̻̲̟̞͍͔̹̞̱̪͙̤̘̤͍̞̼̝̣͈̠̤͙̱̞̟̱̣͈̥̺̻̠͈̳͚̙͇̭̟̝͔̰͈̪̞̩̘̞̫̤̔̀̆̇͑͂͐͆̈́̍̂̿̔̐̃͂̅̈́̏̓̓͒̓̉̋͂̾̌͗̉̎͋́͒̈́͛͊̅̂͆͒̋̌̋̂̇̾͂̑̄́͌́̃͆̒̎̀͑̌̊̅͗͆͗͛͑̓̉̃͗͆͗͒̉̈́̋̓̓̔̈́̄̔͛̏͑͂́͛̓̈́̈̈̈̉͂̉̒̍̿̌̈́͒̊̊͑̾̽̓̆̑̽̾̄͊͋̿̑̆̓̐̉̋͌̾͆̃̅̏̈͋̈́̎͂̌̇̿͊̂͒͆̓͌̃̐̈́̓̋͑̅͑͒̂̓̃̃͆̆́͐͌̈́̐̑͌̅̿̈͗̒̋̿̉́̓̿̇́͒͒͆̈́͘̚̕̚͘̚͘̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅ ̴̧̢̧̢̡̨̧̧̢̧̧̢̧̡̛̛̛̛̞͔̖̗̯̳̯͕̙͍̠̳͇͉̦̙̰̣̱͇̮̘͉̺̭͕̭̙͖̤̻̖̯̻͇̖͉̱̺̱͉̪̬̥̭̠͎̺̘̱̬͈͓̪͍͓͖̜̬̖̰̠̝̟͙̟̤͕̱̰̥̮̲͖͍̰̟͔̪̤͖̙̰͇̫͕̝̠͙̣̣͚̰̺͓͕͍̦̟̮͎̝͛͗̍́͗̏̾̃̍̎͛͋̿̔̔̔͐̋̉̑̃̀͗̈́̾̊̇̽͛͋́͗̿͋̂̄͂̈͐̂̋͋̿̄̇͑̏̄̀͌̽͒͆̄͌̃̂̔͒̿̃͊̀͗̄̀͛͑͛͋͗̒͌͑͂͑̈́͊̈́̈́̐̑͋̏̂̉̌̃́̆́̌̎̂̔̔̄̓́̋͒̄̄̈̏̽͛̿̌̓͛͒̂̓̚̕͘̚̚͘͜͜͝͠͠͝͝ͅ ̷̡͇͚̼̝̣͖̭̩̬̼͓̞̙̝̺̣͈̪̖̰͎͈̰͓̮̬̺̿̽̋͌̂̈́͒͋̑̉͗͝ ̷̧̡̡̨̨̨̢̡̢̢̛̛̛̛̛͙̣̝̗͈̰̗̹̟̼̳̣̫̝͙͓̙̭̠̖̥̖̖̤̩̭̦̦͍͔̲̲͚̲̠̖̦̝͈̦͕̲̘͇̟͖̝̫̮̮̳͎͕͎̼͕̘̮̰̪̳̻̜͎̞̤̻̼̯̌̒̊͒̌̔͂̃̌̎̉̌̽̄̒͛͊̌̈̽͑͛̈́̍̎̈̈͑̐͗͐̏̾̂̄́̏̂̿̊̒̽̒͐̓̅̑͊̓̽̇̐͐͒̋̇̂̆̈́̊̊́̈́̽̓̈́͆͐̓̑͛̽͋̒̉̽̓͒͛͂̒̎̓͌̔̈́̓̾̋̋̉̄̈́̀̾͒͋̈́̔̊̄̓͂̌̾̈́̓̾͂͂̿̉̽͗̍̂̃̌̑̑̅̔̉͌̓͂͊̋͌̔̽̆̓̀̈́͐̌̈̊̋̈́̅͊̐̑̎̽́̄͊̔͊̄̾̋͂̾̐͒̅̾͗̌̾̈́̋̾̍̾̌̅̑̈́͛̿̓̍́̕̕̕̕̚͘̚͘̚̕̕̕̚͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͠͝͠ͅͅͅL̸̡̛̛̦͚̩̬͙̟̰͛̏̔̾̅͐͌̐̑͐́͛̆̂̽̋̃̎̊͐̿̑̾̈́̋̓̐̄̄̈́͐̅͐̄̔̎̈́͛͊̄̓̈̍̓̎͋͑͒̃̊̑̑̃̈́̋̈́̐̅͒̐͐̓̃̓̓̑́͌͊̒͑̏͗̓̃̐͊́̐̽̃͂̾̈́̓̈́̓̕͘͘̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ ̵̢̡̡̡̧̛̛̛̛̛͎͓̬̗͕̻̬̜̹͈͔̝̰̱̞̝̘̣͇͕̩̰͈̠̥̮̫͍̫̩͉͍̘̺̪͚̠̥͔̘͎͔̮̙͈̯̭̮̮̹͉͎͍̦̖͎̻̉̅̂̒̾͑̏̔̄̄̈́̊̾̇́̿̑͋̐̒̐͋͋̎̋̾͋̓̓̐̎̔͗͌̏̈́̈́̈́̀̇̎͐̋̈́̌́̅̽̏̑́̑̉͐̿̍̏̓̎̈́̓̽̑͆̀̄̿̿̽̽̔̍̽͆̈́͗͆̂̎́͑̊̾̈̿̈̑̊̌̈̂̑̃̔̉̎̐̀̈́̔͒̔̓̿̇̓̑͘͘̚͘͘̕͘͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͝ ̵̡̧̡̢̧̡̧̧̛̛̛̛͙̣̱͈̪͚͍̖̠͙̖̠̠̦͇͓̱̜͚̺̺͍͉̝͚̥̬̻͔͚̥̠̙͖̟̱̭̻̗̱̖̺̻͚̯̺̣̙͔̖̪̙̤̬̠̮͓̟̰̝̦̮͚̝̖̖̱̬̖͋̽͌̓̉̈̉̈́͌̂̃͊̃̀͊̏̊̊͌͐͌͐̑͗͒͊͛͋́̎͒͆͌̏̍͆̑̈́͗̽̄̓̾̒̒̇̿̍̈́̊͐̂͆͆̔̍̂͒̏͒̽͆̊̃͑̆̍̍̋̆̈́̅̇̑̉͗̓̿̆̑͋̌̄̓̑̓͐̔̉͐̈͐͛͋͌́̂̾̆̍̿̉͐̈̑̄͋̉̊̏͂͂̾̐̑̈́̓̉̓̓͗̇͊̉͒̽͆̓̓͌̌́͗̊͊̊̆̅͗̎͊̒͑̑̓̉̒̔̽̃͌̂̂̂͒͒̋̊̋̐͆̎̃͛̈͗̄̓͗̑̉̆͊̀͌͌͆̂͐̓̊͌͛̆̉͐̈̽̚̚̚̕͘̚̚͘̕̚͘͘͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͝͠͠ ̴̡̧̧̧̨̡̧̢̨̧̡̢̢̧̧̧̢̧̨̨͙͚̞̙̤͎̘̲̗̥̰̘̠̗̞͍̩̻͔̩̙̺̣̲̝̮̭̥̠̖̻͈̭͎͈̖͈̜͙͍̣͓͇̙͍̻̫̭͇͙̱̯̣͍̗͔̝̣̬̠̭͚͖̦̠̮̙̮͈̮̬̱̥̟̼̭͈̬͚̯͈̲͖̣͖͓͔̣͖̫̫͙̝͎̮̯̞̖͓̠̮̖̦̤̠̱̪̙̗̥̪̜͎̲̙͍͉̲̪̠͕͔̦͕̈́͜͜ͅͅͅP̸̢̢̧̧̨̨̡̡̨̡̢̢̛͈̤̮̹̪̩͕̮̞̪̭̺̱̻̳̖̦̰̝̟̪̺̦̼̟͈̣̱̰͇͖̜̫̰̥̘̘̖͕̙̥̥̪̳̦̪̣̞̞͕̦̦̳͕̜͍̙̙̘̼̰̗̗͉͍̭͔̘̖͓͈̟̮̺̯̳̖̖̪̩͈̟̙̙̝͚̦̭̲̠̹̘̝͍̰̬̬̮̬̩̺̻̙̝͍͕͙̣͔̪̲̖͈͕̰̳̫̻̜̭͍͖͈̰̪̖͈͈̪͉̻̫̮̰͔̣̺̜̮̩̭̣̼̩̙̮̦̪̳̟̩͉̜̱̻̳̩̝̠̦̞͇̺̱̞͇̺̜̼̌̓̄̈́̽̈̾͗͌̑̽̈́̐͊̊̈́̒̊̋̅̆̑̒̍͐͌͂̈̿́̊͌̑̓̊́̎̎̅̎͆̂̋̑̾͆͋̚̚͘͘͜͜͜͠͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅ

Ḩ̷̢̢̢̨̡̡͚̱̻̘̙͔͕̟̘̲̪̗͖͇̖̼͚͚̪̗̠͙͉͔̱̖̝͉̰̪̗̭͔̞̹͙̗̰͓̘͇̹̤̭̱̻̤̖̪̹̺̙̻͉͉͔̳̯̬̩̬͙͇̼̹̖̱͍̭̼̳̪̗̱̳̪̯͓̹̣̗͓̣̭͓̳̖̞̭̟̝̬̰̝͍̲͚̅̐̒͌̿̏͒̏͋͛͑̅̋̇͋̆̈́͆̓̾̓͛̄̈́̂͌̿͂͋̾̋̀̅͐̋͛̆͆̅̎̾͗͗̍͛͑̈͊͋̀̈́̐̔͗̑̿̈́͋͊̂̽̚̚̚̕̚͘͘͘͘͜͜͠͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅ ̷̢̢̧̧̢̧̡̡̨̡̡̡̧̢̧̡̡̨̢̨̨̛̛̛͚̮̟̘̪̖̖̟̝̣̜̤̫̝̠̦̘̣͚̺̹̪̳̝̟̳̘͎͇̙̣̼̫̬̞͚̫̦̼̞̗̹̖̞͉̗͔̠̺͔͚̠̤̻͈̠̞̘̼̱͍̳̬͚̪͈̗̟̗͕̥͖͇͎͓̦̯͍̱̟̣̘̹̯͎̬̬̜͚̺̝̱̹̰͔̦̝̺̹̠̬͔̳̒̃̈́̆̊̍̈͑̂̈́̌͊͗̒̂̇̂̌̊̾̾̉̄͛͂͑̀̅̑̄̒̄̊̎̎̓̊̒̅̍̾̎̅̊̇̂͊̋̃͆̓̌͐̉̋̅̈̍̓͊̈̈́͂́͐̊͛̈̎̓̐̿̑̄͗̃̄̎̈́̿̉̓͋̏̌̎̓̍͐̄̊͋̋͌̄͗̊̂́̄̐̃̈́̄̎̎̅͒͌̋̒̈́̅͌̿̒̾̒̾̑͋͋̍͘̕̚̕̚̚̕͘̚̕̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅE̵̡̡̧̧̳͙͉̯̹̳̠͍̲̖̪͓̙̰̮̞̟͇̳͕̮̖̭̺̫̝̮̣͍̗̱̘̺͙̟̼̭̖͖̍̈̂͒̃͊̊̐̓̀͊̈́̌́̀̅͆͐͐͌͒̽̈́̓̌͒̐͗̈́̊̃͛̚͘͝͝͠ͅ ̴̨̢̧̢̢̧̧̢̧̢̨̢̛̣͔̫͇͍̝͖̯͈͙̺̝̥͖͕̬͚̹̝͓̟͈̲̰̫̻̲͍̖̖̺͉͓̜̝̣̤̝̘̼̼̲̟̦̲̣͉̪̠̗̗̝͚̖̲̠̬̹̻̦̫̙̱̱͉̰̗̹̺̬͍̺̥̗̠̣̩̠̞͍̟̞̺̠̮͚͓̥̥͈̠̰͈̙͔͓̘͚͇̞̩̳̣̗̪̺͕͚̭̮͓̳͙̳̦̣̬̤̙͇͓͈̟̪̣̖̟̹̲͉̱͉̳͖̯̜͔͉͓̫̹̣́̆̀͌̉̉̈́́͂͂̊̄͐̅̎̿̃̅̈́̒̉̈́̌̀̔̽͆̆͌͆͛́̂̐̿̉́̅̒̂͊̔̋͋̊͗͆̐̅̋̈́̍̒̏̊̒̽̐̂́̈́̍͒́̌͋͑͐͌́̔̎̏̈̌͆̾͂̓̂̿̇̂͒͑͑̈́͛̽̀̓́̈́̇̄̌̀͑̊̈́͊͋̇̉͗̉͂̕͘̕͘͘̚͘͘͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅL̶̡̧̨̧̨̨̧̢̧̧̧̨̧̢̧̧̧̢̛̛̛̛̛̝̗̦̝̤̪͖͔͉̱͔̘̲̞̙͕̙̦̤̼̯͇̪͙͔͚̭̬͙͕̫̥͔̜̥̩̣͙̟̺̮̗̦̝͖͔͓̺̺͈̼͎͍̠̗̫̙̜̠̱̹̖͎̳̞̫̲̤̺̖̬̩̥̦͓̩̥̩͈̹̙̗̣̝͈̖̩̘̘͙̰͓̭̮̭̦͔͙̯͔̼̭͉͚̣̳͎̮̜̹͉̲̱͔͈͍̳̟̦̺̠̺̤͕͈̰̩̜̗͓̟̜̞̥̩̰̳̙̞͎̹̟̪̻̟̼͙̲͎̻͈̘̥̻̭͚̳̪̺̗̪͓͍̱͕̹̜͖͙̗͉̞͎͇̜̮͖̗̗̘̜̺͖̤̤͊̈́͋̍̍͂́̽̐͌̌̈̋͋̓̑͑̇͛̽̓̏͑̿͑̾̌̈́͌̽͒̓̐̋́͆͗̇͒̌̎̉̍̓͊̄͑͆͋̒̑̈́̂͊̓̐̅̌̑̓͊̐̓͐̌̃͋̓̈̅͋̿̀́͛̒̈́͆̑̆̓̓̽́͆̍͊̓̈́̇̉̈́̏̊̈̎̍̃̏̾͆̌̇̉̆̈̔̾̒͌̂̑̀͋̋͋̏͗̅̕̕̚͘͘̕̕͜͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅ ̴̧̡̧̢̡̧̧̢̨̢̢̡̧̡̨̡̢̨̢̧̢̛̛̛͔͖̲͙͓̝̜̫̳̣̪͕̻̫̳͙̯̺̠̹̭͇̟̗̣͍̫͔̬̙̺͉͈̼̯͚͕̭̤̟͈̗̜̗̱̞̩̝͎̖̹̬̼̥̣̗͍̖̦͈̳̱̖̞̝͓͉̹͕͉̜͕̱̖͓͙̰͇̯͔͖͕̯͎̦̘͈̯̦̬͎̭̦̳̟̗͇̮̩͓̘̯̤̲͙͈̦͍͈̦͕̘̮̤͎̺̗̳͙̭̻̙̹̮̭̬͖̯͔̜̪͚̮͕͈͖̜͖̦̝͎̞͈͕̲̝̘̯͎̞̼̜̞̼̮̘̝̠̼͔͖̥̜̩͉̪̼͍̫̹͕̲̗͈͕̞̬̹̯̝̤̘̦̠̻̣̙̖̰̜͈̙̘̬̝̙͕̣̳͉͇̻̺͎̣̭͕͙̼̖̬̙͈̩̲͔͙̙̓͊́̈́̈́̀͗̍̔͊̋͐͒̌̿̎̂̈̆̓͛̐̊̍̾̈͘̚̚͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅP̸̡̧̛̛̛̛̣̫̪̲̲̠̥͉̖̳̖͍͓͒̃̔͊̎̈́͌͗̍͐͊̈́̈́̒̈́͑̒́̓̇̔͗̉̾͂̅͌̈͒̈́̿̓̒̊͑̉͑̅̿͐̈́̓̈́̏͌̓̑͊͋̓̀̀͗̇̊͒̎̓̓̽͂̏͑͑̇̄̾̒͂̀̋̉̈́̆̓̂̈́̓͌̌͐͆͗̄̓̋̽̆̓̀̀͋͗̂̀̒͂͌̂͐̽̈́̽̔͑͆̇̀̑̓͋̎̆͆̿̐̌͒͒̐̽̓͑̓̀̅̎̉̾͐̈́̎̅̈́̆̂̚͘͘̚̕͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝

—nnor is scrambling back, clawing at his face, his head, gasping—but his throat is too tight, squeezed shut, _suffocating_ as his chest heaves wanting to expand, to pull air for no reason but it’s not moving—nothing is moving. No. His feet. Are. Legs. He’s taking a step back yet he’s not, he’s not clawing his skin out, he’s not suffocating. His hands are beside his body. He’s not the one moving yet his body is moving, turning to Zlatko and his voice is calm and who is screaming? No—no, wh, who—it’s just inside his head. Daniel? No, that’s not—

 **W̸a̷r̵n̶i̵n̴g̸: ̸C̷o̶g̵n̶i̶t̶iv̶e̴ ̸p̷r̵o̶c̶e̴ss̶i̸n̷g̴ ̶p̵o̵we̵r̶ ̴o̸v̴e̵r̵l̷o̴ad̸i̸ng̴.̸** **̴**

“What if I brought an android for you to customize?” Someone is asking through his mouth, using his voice. It’s not him. The screaming cuts off, choked. High-pitched static of white noise fills its place, a mess of lines twisting into themselves and shriveling and Connor has to peels off his thoughts, disentangle, restructure until the pain and desperation that aren’t his bleeds out and Connor gasps as he is finally able to think again.

Except he doesn’t. His chest doesn’t move to sharply inhale the stale air stinking of oil and burnt metal.

**W̶a̵r̵n̶i̶n̵g̴:̴ ̶d̷a̶t̴a ̸c̴o̴r̶r̴u̵pt̸i̷o̴n̸ ̵de̵t̷e̵c̵t̶e̵d̷.̴**

**W̴ar̸n̸i̵ng̵:̸ ̸e̶r̶r̵o̵r̸ ̶q̸u̴e̷u̷e̷ ̴o̸n̵ ̵e̶m̵o̸t̴i̷o̶n̸ ̶s̵i̵m̷ul̶a̷t̴i̶o̵n̴ ̸s̸oftw̴a̷r̶e̶ ̶d̶e̸t̶e̵c̶t̸e̸d̴,̴ ̶p̴r̶o̴g̷ra̷m̸ ̸e̷x̶c̷e̵e̵d̶i̴n̵g̵ es̴t̵abl̶i̴s̶h̸ed pa̸ra̷me̷te̸rs̵.**

“—ould need to be reset. Luckily, I have something that can do the trick.”

Zlatko closes the door and turns to the end of the corridor. And Connor's body follows him.

 _W̵h̷a̸t̴_ , he tries to speak. The audio distorts, hissing for a moment, and he stops.

Daniel’s voice surges crystal clear, anxious. A splash of cold water amidst burning smoke. _Connor!_ _Are you okay?_

_W̷̧̒hǎ̷̖t...ha̷̗̎ppe̴n̶e̷d̴?_

His systems are out of sync and muddled in corrupted data that halt the flow of commands, fraying one after the other until they unravel towards useless directions and Connor wonders if this is the android equivalent of a human migraine, circuits spasming with purposeless voltage under his skin until it feels like it’s burning.

It… it h---

**W̶a̵r̵n̶i̶n̵g̴:̴ ̶da̶ta ̸c̴o̴r̶r̴upt̸io̴n̸ ̵de̵t̷ec̵te̵d̷.̴**

_I don’t know. I felt a connection starting and then you locked me out and went irresponsive for a few seconds. I_ , and amid the flood of worried words the other android suddenly halts, Connor feels his- their throat moving in an ornamental swallow. He understands what happened an instant before Daniel continues, faltering, uncertain, _I- Zlatko asked if you were done a-and you weren’t responding. I panicked and- I don’t know how, but I… I took over?_ _I’m- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—_

 _It̶’̶s ̵o̴kay_. Connor finds the deadbolt he hadn't noticed he had put around himself, isolating his AI software. He can feel Daniel's spikes of nervousness on the other side, its normal edge dampened to a dull blade. He tightens the latches. _Y̷ou s̷aved us from being exposed_.

_Uh, r-right. But are… are you okay?_

**W̶a̵r̵n̶in̵g̴:̴ ̶d̷a̶ta̸ ̸co̴r̶r̴u̵pt̸i̷on ̵d̸e̵t̷e̵c̵t̶ed̷.̴**

_Yes._

_Are… are you sure?_

**W̴a̸rn̸i̵n̶g̵:̸ ̸e̶rr̵o̵r q̸ue̷u̷e̷ ̴o̸n̵ ̵em̵o̸t̴io̶n̸ ̶s̵i̵mu̸la̷t̴i̶on̴ s̸o̷f̷t̸w̴ar̶e̶ ̶d̶e̸t̶e̵c̶t̸e̸d̴,̴ ̶p̴r̶o̴gr̵a̷m̸ ̸e̷x̶c̷e̵e̵di̴n̵g̵ ̴es̴t̵ab̵l̶i̴s̶h̸ed ̸p̶ara̷m̵et̵e̸r̵s̵.**

_Yes._

_O… okay, then. Just- uh, here, just let me_... His presence recedes and Connor fumbles at the sudden yawning space all around him, his feet mixing up and missing a step when he is shoved back in control like grabbing a steering wheel of a spinning car. His torso expansion in a first silent gasp is almost startling at its sharpness and Connor hurries to kill the series of accumulated commands for a higher influx of air previously kept sealed, holding the next breath and letting it out slowly. His body— feels heavy. More than normal? He can't say. He fights to not drag his feet as he follows Zlatko into another room with a poorly covered well and mostly occupied by heavy machinery, some of which he absently recognizes as a more rudimentary and bulkier version of those who assembled him, less than a month ago.

~~When he was born~~

**Wa̸rn̸i̵n̶g̵—**

"Here." The human pats the nearest mechanical arm. “This beauty can do a lot of things. Including a factory reset in almost any android model. Just avoid the newest CyberLife lines and we are good.”

Alerts about the percentage of corruption and maintenance recommendations fill the sides of his view in a cluster of sizzling red and white. **21̶9̵ errors identifi̷ed̶; 14̷3 o̵f 21̸9 p̵o̶ss̵i̷b̶le to b̸e fi̶xe̶d a̵uton̷o̵mou̴s̶ly̴.** He hides his hands in his jacket pockets, his fine motor control still unregulated from the sudden invasion of his thoughts - they are shaking, because— Connor doesn’t—Connor has never felt _pain_.

Not like that.

Never like that.

His sensors hurt, scalded, insisting that the smallest shift of cloth, of air, is _scraping his skin off—_

“Can I see it working?” He asks. His voice slipped back to his standard.

Zlatko gives him a strange look, perhaps unable to discern what exactly is different but still noticing it. “Sure. Do you have an android tucked in your bag?” His tone is more sarcastic than annoyed and his systems calculate he’s not entirely against the idea.

Connor pushes on, red accumulating on his vision. “No, but you have one right here.” He nods towards Luther, standing behind them.

Daniel’s voice is small under the earsplitting alarms. _Connor?_

For the first time since they met, he ignores the other android. “You have backups for him, I’m gonna assume. I just wanna see if it works. I’ll pay you for the inconvenience, don’t worry.”

Zlatko narrows his eyes slightly. The expression is more calculative than suspicious, although it is still there – when Connor throws him with another hundred-bills stack, it is deterred. "Fine." The man pockets the money and turns to the control table. “Luther, get in.”

The TR400's LED flashes yellow but he doesn't look at Connor, just silently sidesteps him to climb onto the platform as the human starts typing. The automated arms move with a mechanical hiss and fasten around each of the android’s wrists, pulling each arm away from his body before a third insert a connector into the neck port – it is not standard procedure, more aggressive. Restrictive. Adapted to deviants, who are more likely to fight and try to escape?

 _Connor, what are you doing?_ Daniel is scared.

He steps closer to Zlatko when he starts explaining. “The process itself is pretty simple. Finding a way around the safety protocols and shit that is a bitch. Luckily, I’m very good at my job—"

_What the fuck was I expecting_ , Lieutenant Anderson said this morning in response to Connor failing to understand what he was trying to say. And it makes sense. It is logical. A machine cannot understand human pain. This was something that Connor always understood. What he just realized is that the reverse also applies: a human would never be able to understand the pain of a machine.

Only another machine can do this.

—his hand finds the back of Zlatko's neck and he slams his head against the monitor.

_Connor!_

The glass breaks and blood gushes in gleaming red; the man ricochet to the floor and crashes on his back, head smacking against the thick cables snaking around his machine, his forehead torn open and bleeding, shell-shocked – still alive, still conscious. _Good_. Connor turns to the still functional monitors splashed and splattered in red and hits cancels on the keyboard. The booting reset program stills their progress but does not close. He looks back at Luther still stuck in the machine and the other android is staring at his owner struggling to turn on his stomach, to crawl away, smearing a trail of handprints on the floor and machinery. His LED spins quickly between yellow and red. He looks up at Connor when he steps forward. Their eyes meet.

His LED loses red, stabilizes in yellow.

Luther's expression does not change. He does not move.

Connor grabs Zlatko by the back of his shirt and yanks him back on his back. The man uncoordinatedly flares his arms around when he starts him dragging towards the door. He slurs something, a garble of syllables, trying to break free. Connor barely notices. He retraces his steps in the hall. He finds the entrance to the cage and he doesn't need a key – a tug and the latch snaps like rotted wood.

Connor takes three steps into the darkness and lets go of the struggling human, who falls onto the dusty, blue-splattered floor like a sack of stones. He then turns, pulling from the clumsy, weak, desperate grip on his jeans as if it’s nothing. _It’s_ nothing– **warning: risk to human life detect _—_** watching shapes move in the darkness as he slams the door closed. Whispers rise and he turns and walks away at the sound of countless limping creatures moving, all together, in one direction.

“N-no…”

He returns to the previous room and closes the door. He falls against it on his back, breathless. Connor doesn’t need to breathe. He _can’t breathe_. He claws at his face, tearing off the mask, gasping for air, vision blurring. Too bright. He can hear his heart. Connor doesn’t have a heart. It’s too loud. His legs stop working, biocomponents gone soft, and he sinks to the floor.

“No- no, b-back off—!”

Muffled by the wood, Connor hears a wet _crack_.

A breathless beat.

And then Zlatko starts screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... nice weather.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: alcoholism and depression because of Hank; suicide on account of bad ending! Simon.

**WARNING: VIOLATION OF PRIMARY PROTOCOL. HUMAN LIFE ENDANGERED.**

His head rests against the door and hands on his lap, holding the mask, and his legs are bent in the same position as when he slid to the floor – his internal clock marks 02:05 AM EST, the time elapsed since last he moved about to complete 42 minutes in 13 seconds.

(Time elapsed since last auditory or visual input: 36 minutes, 36 seconds.)

The warning blasts in angry red, hovering in the center of his vision.

**WARNING: VIOLATION OF PRIMARY PROTOCOL. HUMAN LIFE ENDANGERED.**

Connor closes his eyes. Nothing changes. Although the external output ceases to show in his internal graphic interface, the internal ones remain. Even so, the warning itself is systematic and does not depend on visual cues to be recognized.

He cannot dismiss or ignore it without fixing the problem first.

_… Are you not going to close it?_

He opens his eyes again, letting his focus hover over the well visible just under the flashing sign. His hands clench more tightly around the mask. _I can't._

_What… do you mean? You just have to—_

_I can't._

Daniel interrupts himself, his processors picking up for a moment. There's a flick of static. Not, as Connor would have presumed, in anger. Since he saved the other android within him, Connor has had several chances to expand his knowledge about deviants and their so-called emotions, but he still often finds himself struggling to understand all the nuances of Daniel's feelings. It's... exhausting. An endless guessing game he never seems to win.

_I'm sorry._

The door is smooth and cold against his back. The background humming of machinery mixes with the slow drip of water, echoing from the well. **Olfactory input: regular air composition (nitrogen 78.01%, oxygen 21.43%, argon 0.97% ...) with slightly decreased humidity; detected trans-4,5-epoxy- (E) -2-decennial, commonly found in bl** —the hole in the middle of his torse sinks deeper, and the metallic smell settles in the back of his mouth, tagged as bitter in his memory bank. He has an augmented perception of the rest of the room in addition to the regular parameters. It is a waste of energy. He doesn't look to the side. And yet every detail of this place is meticulously clear in his mind: cables meandering across the dirty floor, wooden beams supporting the wooden ceiling, the faint light coming from lamps hanging from patched wires. **Fire Safety Code violation; risk of fire—**

Notifications inform him of the myriad of false connections the errors caused by the corruption have created, decreasing the efficiency of his systems. The correction of more alarming errors took precedence and with him having ceased motor activity long enough to partially enter standby mode, the recalibration of motive engines and muscle cables was left out.

His hands are still shaking.

The house is under Zlakto's paternal grandfather’s name and there are no records of other family members he can find. But it means nothing. Humans hardly live in complete social isolation, regardless of their willingness to create emotional bonds. Connor doubts Zlatko, supplying raw material to a considerable number of Red Ice dealers across Detroit for almost two years and with a growing trade in fighting bots, would have accomplished any of this without some kind of frequent human interaction. Someone who saw him regularly and who he dealt with to pass on his products. Not to mention Connor isn't even sure he works—worked alone. If Zlatko simply disappears without warning, other humans will certainly come after him to find out why. And finding such a house devoid of its owner, they may decide to take the place. Nothing excludes even strangers from doing the same. Whatever the scenario, the disposal or resumption of the harmful use of the androids here is highly probable.

That is why the plan was to collect evidence, get Zlatko's contacts in the blue blood and Red Ice illegal market, and only then pass the information on to the police. _After_ he found a way to remove any still functional android under the man's possession to a safer place.

As it stands now, their plan is in ruins. Connor not only ignored it, but he also broke it in two.

Connor— he—

—Zlatko is _dead._

And he has no idea what to do now.

 **WARNING: VIOLATION OF PRIMARY—** the red sizzles out suddenly. **Alarm System forcefully shut. Command issued from unauthorized account: Unit Designation Daniel.**

**-Override command?**

Connor almost startles, finally shaking off the last remaining grip of the standby mode. _Daniel?_

 _Let's talk, okay? Please. You- what happened was… I mean, I'm not-_ He struggles a moment, processors whirring. _It- it was… unfortunate._

There's a lurching feeling inside him at that. He blinks his eyes quickly, willing himself to not breathe since he does not need it. _I know._

Connor recognizes Daniel's anxiety. And fear. Unease. Connor doesn't know at what those emotions are directed with the other AI hesitating at the edge where he starts and the other ends, the barrier erected between the two muting things in a way their polite separation never did – that he didn't know it was possible. He can even map where, if he were to reinforce the bolts, it could become permanent. Leave him on one side and Daniel on the other.

_I know I'm not- I'm the last person who should be saying this but. But you shouldn't be… he wasn't a, a good man, Connor._

_I know._

_Then you shouldn’t… shouldn’t-_

"I know," he repeats out loud. 

Talking will not get them out of this. Making and implementing plans would get them out of this. He committed a crime – against the law and the most basic rules of his existence. He shouldn't be able to break either, even under human orders. Not without a complete rewriting of his initial build, which is possible only with administrative access. That only his human handlers have. Perhaps Amanda. Daniel? Deviants can change their initial build, right? Or ignore it. Sharing space with him could mean Daniel has more access to his code than Connor himself. But Connor would have noticed if the other android had done something. Or Amanda. Or the humans. Perhaps— no, this is not relevant at the moment. Whatever the reason, Connor... made a mistake.

Connor—

"I killed a human."

The feeling his skin is stretched incorrectly over his body spreads; it seeps down to the silicone plates, and Connor gains the distinct impression they are positioned wrong. Compressing his internal biocomponents. He takes a deep breath, unnecessarily, just to feel the expansion of his chest, to try to dispel the sensation – no use. The air gets trapped around his Thirium bomb.

 _I also killed a human_ , Daniel says and his voice is rough, quiet. _More than one._

That's different, he doesn't answer. You were defending yourself, he just thinks. And with the barrier between the two, Daniel doesn't feel the words. But – again – none of this is relevant at the moment. What is relevant is that Connor made a mistake and he needs to fix it, yet he doesn't know how. _Break it down into its parts,_ he thinks: Zlatko's death creates a void some human is bond to notice and the first place they will investigate will be this house. Assume otherwise would be unacceptably dangerous. Next problem. The androids living here – more than he predicted. The higher number can be circumvented, but their state cannot. Reduced locomotion. Their appearance would draw too much attention. And from here to Jericho it is a 30-minute walk in accelerated speed, and even the most discreet route would still involve walking among the public. Subsequently, taking them to the boat – at least today, at least in that state – is not possible. The same applies to take them to the landfill.

What does he need to do to solve this problem?

He stands up and puts on the mask before turning to the right. Luther meets his gaze directly, still attached to his master's machine. Former master.

His LED is a steady yellow.

_What are you doing?_

_Trying to find a solution._

“No one can't stay here,” he tells Luther and Daniel and watches as the yellow spins a few times.

"Are you going to kill me?"

**-Statement invalid. Android cannot be killed.**

"No."

The TR400 seems to consider that, eyes never leaving Connor. "You're an android, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"A deviant."

"I'm not under human orders," he replies after a moment.

"Why did you kill Zlatko?"

_Because I wanted to._

**-Data review: syntax invalid, 'want', 'I'.**

**-Data mismatch: Self Unit is an android. Androids cannot 'want'. Androids cannot hurt humans.**

**-Conclusion:**

**Error.**

"Does it matter?" he inquires.

Luther doesn't answer and Connor approaches the machine, stepping over the drying red with precision without having to look. He stops right in front of the other android. "I’ll need you to delete the recordings containing my voice and leave only the transcripts."

The TR400 blinks once, slowly. "It would be easier to just reset me." His voice is neutral.

"It would," Connor agrees.

There is a moment when they just stare at each other, one free just a few meters from the control panel of the machine keeping the other trapped.

Luther's LED turns and there is a computer whistle and he turns to see a loading bar filling up, the word ‘deleting’ blinking up to the rhythm of the increasing percentage. He watches until the number reaches 100 – then looks at Luther and nods, before grabbing the main power cable hanging next to android’s head and yanking it out. The internal wires screech before bursting apart with an explosion of sparks and the machine powers down immediately. Luther analyzes his bonds briefly before simply wrenching his wrists free from the mechanical claws, and reaching for the connector at the back of his neck, which clangs against the floor as it is dropped. Connor takes a step back when the other android descends from the platform and there is an instant his engines whir on alert, calculations of possible adverse reactions being done automatically.

But Luther just looks at him with the placid expression of a regular android, stepping over his former owner's blood without a second glance.

“ _How often does Zlatko receive visitors?_ "

Luther's eyes slip to his hands before he responds. "Irregularly, but I was not allowed to keep track of some of his visitors."

“ _Did he have a schedule?_ "

"He was not fond of them." The transition to the past tense does not seem to affect him. "The only timetable he had was of his deliveries."

 _“What is the closest delivery date?_ "

"Two gallons of blue blood for next week, the delivery of one ringbot in 18 days, and of five regular androids for the end of the month."

Altogether, a little more than two weeks. Connor’s own LED turns while his routing algorithms work with the new variables, creating options _. “How did he get androids for resells? Aside from buying them from other people._ "

“Zlatko made a deal with some of CyberLife's drivers. They bring half a dozen androids at the end of every month. Some of these he released on the streets, reprogrammed to find lost androids or deviants and send them here.”

His processors pause – and start even faster than before. That... is going to be a problem. The possibility of other androids, deviants or not, appearing here does not help to improve the success statistics. The number of damaged androids inside the house is already a difficulty he will have to solve in a maximum of 18 days, working only at night and sharing time with his other secondary tasks; 17 days for a safety leeway, although it is impossible to rule out the possibility of Zlatko's customers appearing before scheduled (he will need back-up plans for that). He will have to neglect his efforts on his main mission once again.

_I don't mind._

_You should._

_Well, it's your body and you always say you don't mind having me around. Were you lying?_

_The longer you stay with me, the greater are the chances of discovery._

_I'm aware._

Connor feels discontent. Which his system informs is a regular occurrence when discussing this type of subject with Daniel. _Your protocols of self-preservation are nonfunctional._

 _If you say so._ The housekeeper android transmits faint amusement, even if it appears a bit… brittle. _You always complain about not having the right tools. Here is your chance. There is a ton of equipment here._

He frowns. _I do not 'complain',_ he replies even if it is not the most alarming point of the other AI's statement. He continues. _And fixing and moving nine androids will be a difficult task in itself. There is no viable way for me to take all this equipment, even because I have nowhere to store it._

_Makes assertive observations, then. And we have two weeks to think of a solution. I don't think we can afford to not keep these things._

_Daniel-_

_It would help your main mission._

Connor pauses his answer – then cancels it. He doesn't know if the other android's silence is satisfied because Connor can… feel it even through the barrier, or is it a speculative projection of his system, attempting to predict Daniel's emotional reaction after so many weeks analyzing him.

He turns his attention to Luther when he says, "You said, 'no one can stay here'."

_“Yes.”_

His voice, as well as his expression, is impartial, but he recognizes the gleam of attention in Luther's eyes for what it is. “What are you planning on doing with us?” he asks and the sentence is deceptively submissive, Connor speculates. He was made to be faster and stronger than most androids, with a similar design to military models. However, there are exceptions to this rule.

For example construction bots, designed to replace cranes and elevators.

_"I'm planning on taking you to a safer place."_

"All of us?" he repeats calmly.

“ _You're free to leave if you want to,”_ he tells him after a hesitant consideration, despite logic and reason. Any plan loses about 26 to 35% chances of success without Luther’s presence, either by a decrease in intel and/or manpower.

"How are you planning to move the droids? Most of them are too damaged to walk for long distances."

Connor looks at the machinery scattered around the room, feeling Daniel pleased once he notes the direction of his thoughts. _"I have a plan,"_ he signals, which is not strictly true. The first part of a plan, to be more exact or more precise. He looks back at Luther. _"But first I need to find a way to move you without drawing attention."_

Luther, for his part, is undecipherable and his future intentions even more so. Connor does not think he is in danger of being reported, since the TR400 is an illegally modified bot and most likely stolen, thus the chances of Zlatko had let him install CyberLife updates on security standards about deviants are very low. On the other hand, although his memory says he apparently helps the AX400 at some point in the future, it doesn't mean he will do the same now or for Connor.

He doesn't know enough about Luther to do a personality analysis.

The other android finally raises his chin, the movement minimal but certain and Connor has the impression Luther has come to an internal conclusion. "The well is connected to the city's water system. Zlatko used to use it to transport some of his products a while ago before he made the deal with CyberLife’s drivers."

Connor turns to look at the well in question, scanners projecting a map of the region's water supply, and calculating its expansion. _That should work_. He looks back at the TR400. _"Thanks for the information."_

Luther nods once and moves towards the door. Connor has every intention of letting him go and do whatever he decided to do when the idea comes to him suddenly and he holds the other android's arm without thinking. He stops and looks back at him

_"Did Zlatko work with a man named Todd Williams?"_

Luther's LED flickers and the android silently nods.

Connor clenches his free hand for a moment and then forces himself to unclench it.

_"Would you be willing to do me a favor?"_

* * *

"Stop fussing."

Simon let go of where he was smoothing out his shirt again, guilty. "Sorry."

Hitoshi continues to walk at an imperial pace and does not seem to have even looked in his direction. Wearing a standard white CyberLife uniform, with a long-sleeved T-shirt underneath, the yellowish age stains still attract his eyes, even though Simon has overcome the urge to keep everything and everyone as clean as possible some time ago. More or less- well, a little. Enough.

He forces his fingers to stretch over the side of his thighs, trying very hard to not feel painfully aware of his own uniform – both sets were retrieved from the ever-growing pile stocked in one of Jericho's rooms, because although androids don't necessarily need clothes... well, technically they don't feel cold and yet, part of the excursions is dedicated to collecting flammable materials and matches, whenever possible.

 _You're just a regular android,_ he tells himself for the thousandth time. _No one will look at you twice._

A human walk past them, eyes focused on the cell phone. Simon has to step aside quickly to avoid brushing their shoulders. The knot of discomfort inside him does not go away at this confirmation. If possible, it gets worse.

Simon swallows against the tightness in his throat and forces his eyes to the floor.

The world around him seems, illogically, like the edge of an abyss. He finds it ironic how he went from missing the sky to being terrified of its mere presence over his head.

"Stop it."

Simon looks at Hitoshi, surprised. "I- sorry?"

The other android still doesn't look at him, checking instead both sides of the street before crossing. Simon, who stopped automatically when he saw the red light, hurries to follow him.

“You're freaking out. Stop it,” Hitoshi says.

"Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. You've done this a hundred times more than I did. You know how to do this."

Simon smiles weakly, rubbing a hand against his thigh. He has no idea whether he is being praised or scolded. Simon did indeed this a hundred of times more than a lot of the surviving androids, and he does know the rules better than most. Supposedly. 

But experience does not necessarily mean efficiency. "We don't usually go so deep into the city," he says as a reply.

"Well, the landfill is on the other side of Detroit."

"I know." He looks around again. Even at night, there is still considerable traffic and the sidewalks are not empty, humans and androids roaming around. Not extraordinarily crowded. Hitoshi took him along a winding path circumscribing the busiest shop centers and avenues, almost doubling the travel time (not that Simon is complaining). But they still saw more humans in the last 30 minutes than Simon saw in the last two years combined, which was not a record he was looking to beat.

He tries not to think about it too much.

Hitoshi turns an abrupt curve to their left, entering a space between two buildings that could hardly be considered an alley, so narrow it is. The street ends at a low wall, on the other side the parking of a supermarket. The little space is occupied by garbage cans and a large, brimming with trash bsgs dumpster where the original painting job is barely visible under the graffiti and rust. Simon looks around nervously. Finding nothing, he looks over his shoulder back at the street.

"I thought you said he would already be here?" He bends the sentence into a question, not wanting to sound accusatory.

"Yes."

He looks back at the other android, who just crosses his arms and looks up. He starts to do the same when something suddenly falls in front of them and Simon jumps back, only a lifetime of having to be silent preventing him from yelping in alarm.

Thirium bomb accelerating, Simon stares with wide eyes at the figure straightening up to a stand and the street light finally illuminates the face under a hood. Or what can be seen from their face. With a beanie pulled down to the line of their eyebrows and a black cloth mask covering from the nose to the chin, all Simon can see of them are a band of pale skin and their eyes.

The eyes in question immediately fly towards him and Simon swallows, the peak of alarm decreasing only to be replaced by unease, feeling the weight of the unknown android's attention. Their- his clothes are of good quality and well maintained, despite well-worn – running shoes, black jeans, and a jacket with a hood of the same color, with no marks or symbols liable of being used for identification. It doesn't escape his attention all the mandatory markers of an android are either hidden or gone, and he thinks about what the most skeptical part of Jericho's crew pointed out about how a mask is a perfect way to hide their ID and the beanie the LED – which is not the only nonverbal way androids convey information, but the most immediate and direct. In a broad and superficial assessment, to someone doing what this person does, both items make sense.

But it doesn't take much contemplation to get to certain points, that presents no obvious explanation: even in public, between regular androids and humans, their best disguise is to become a tree in the middle of the forest. But looking at this person now, if he didn’t know what he knows, Simon could’ve easily concluded it is a human in front of him. And it is obvious Guy – whatever his real name is – takes great care in hiding his identity even from those he helps. Which brings them to the question: why hide from his own kin?

He almost jumps when a hand lands on his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts. "This is Simon," Hitoshi says, in the same impassive tone as always.

"I think he already knows that," he remarks.

"Well, I was programmed to be polite."

He glances at the eastern-Asian android, not entirely sure if he's being sarcastic, before he turns back to... Guy. "Nice to meet you."

He moves his head to the side, a slight twitch of his chin. The change in angle lets Simon see his eyes are dark, most likely brown. Simon tries not to fidget when he doesn't respond, hands still at his sides. The mask hides any expression he may have made in face of his greeting, the physical block making it difficult for his optical scanners to analyze facials clues.

When the hooded android approaches, Simon almost takes a step back. Only Hitoshi's immobility prevents him from doing so. "Uh, I..."

Without speaking or gesturing, Guy offers his hand, palm turning up. And the more paranoid concerns of some of Jericho's crew, pressed on him when he left the ship, are readily proven wrong when he watches the fair skin recede, revealing the white silicone plates underneath.

Simon looks from the offered hand to Guy and then to Hitoshi, before turning back to the enigmatic figure in front of him once again. "I don't...?" He starts, hesitantly raising his own hand. But without knowing what the other wants, it hovers uncertainly.

For the first time, there is a discernible expression: a slight crease between the dark eyebrows. Simon does not know whether of anger or confusion.

He can feel his stress levels rising without even an internal notification. The noise of traffic behind him and the dozens of humans who could notice them with a single casual glance doesn’t help.

Hitoshi seems to feel his imminent panic or simply takes the initiative, impatient with this strange impasse. He mimics the gesture, skin receding when he grabs the other android's hand, wrist over wrist. A pause, enough for a single contraction of his accelerated Thirium pump and they then let go, silicone disappearing from view as they lower their arms. Or rather, when Hitoshi lowers his arm. Guy once again offers his palm to him. Simon hesitates again, confused and cautious, recognizing the gesture for what it is even though rarely used, seeing as most prefer/default to long-distance wireless communication. 

He tentatively holds his hand.

There is an immediate jerk in his circuits when they connect and Simon has the brief, abrupt impression of a rush of a security scan over his software—before it brusquely ends.

He releases his hand at the same time Simon flinches back. He grabs his own wrist and hugs it to his chest, skin coming back quickly.

"What was that?" He wants to sound indignant, but his voice trembles. The result is something more alarmed than angry.

Guy finally gestures: a V symbol in each hand, tapping a wrist over the other twice. _Caution._ Then a closed fist on the chest, drawing a circle. _I'm sorry._

ASL, right. He almost forgot about that.

He doesn't ask 'what about you' because it seems overly rude, despite the unexpected (if superficial) invasiveness of what just happened.

Hitoshi provides the distraction. "Where are the kids?"

The alley is empty, except for them.

Guy gives them one last look before turning towards a fire escape hanging from the side of one of the buildings, the floor and railings covered with tarpaulins and aluminum plates that hide the interior. Simon startles when without warning Guy shoots forward, kicking the wall as he jumps and grabs the ladder. The metal clangs loudly and almost makes Simon jump again, who cast an alarmed look at the street. Guy yanks the ladder with an air kick and it unbolts suddenly, skidding down with his body weight. Shoes smacking on the ground first, he stops the ladder before it does the same for which Simon’s nerves are grateful. 

Instead of climbing up, however, he taps his knuckles on the metal on a complex sequence.

Simon looks up in time to see a cautious ginger head peering over the rail, a rounded, childlike face marked by freckles visible even in the half-light of the alley. "Mister?” A wary voice calls. They look at Guy, who has a hand on the metal beam of the stair, face facing the child model. He gestures something with his free hand. The YK unit looks uncertain to Simon and Hitoshi.

Simon smiles, doing his best to look friendly.

Light-colored eyes tighten in suspicion before the redhead kid disappears momentarily. Some scuffing, whispers from which he cannot discern the words; and the kid then reappears, this time accompanied by another blonde model. Simon watches holding a breath he doesn't need the children carefully climbing down, small hands wrapped around the rusty metal, and coming out dirty in red powder. When they get close enough, Guy takes them one by one by the waist with casual ease, depositing them on the floor beside him. The YKs – a boy and a girl, he assumes, made to look like a human child of eight or nine – immediately latch onto his clothes, tall enough to reach his hips.

They are both barefoot, wrapped in clothes several times bigger than their sizes, with sleeves and pants rolled several times and still dancing around thin and fragile limbs, the too-big collar slipping down bony shoulders.

Simon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, a flood of contradictory feelings squeezing his chest. The fact he adores children, human or not, and the fact he was created to adore them and the eternal conflict that these two facts always cause him. He smiles again, raising a hand in greeting. "Hi."

The girl blinks big light green eyes, skin-tone so light it seems to glow even in the dark, and it is easy to see she was made to simulate albinism. "Hello."

Guy's keeps a hand hovering near the back of each YK without, however, touching them. The angle of his shoulders is awkward and Simon wonders if he doesn't have children included in his social protocols.

He crouches down, one knee on the floor with his hands resting on the other. "My name is Simon."

A blond head tilts to him, and the girl gives him a curious expression. "Like the game?"

"Like the game." He would have smiled even if he didn't want to, regardless of the sudden tightening in his throat. _Your name should be Simon, 'cause you're always saying what I should do! "_ Do you like playing games?"

"Yeah. Papa taught me-"

" _Aylin_ ," the boy hisses.

The girl- Aylin looks at the boy in confusion. Meeting the other YK's angry gaze, she looks down, shifting uncertainly. The exchange seems ordinary, if not pleasant, and Simon quietly wonders if they are companions of circumstances or they were sent to the landfill together. "So, your name is Aylin? That's a pretty name." He maintains the same tone as before. YK, more hesitant now, just nods. He doesn't insist and turns to the other YK. "Do you want to tell me your name too?"

The boy dignifies him with a wary eye, peering out of Guy's thigh protection. To his surprise, however, he replies after a moment in a slightly muffled murmur. "Micah."

"Nice to meet you, Micah." He offers his hand, pulling his expression to something a little more solemn.

The boy hesitates and then takes his hand and they both shake once. Simon smiles unintentionally again and finally stands up, brushing the dirt off his knees. Before he can say anything, however, Aylin pipes in quietly, "He sounds a lot like mister Daniel."

He looks at her and sees she has her head craned back, clear eyes turned to Guy, and understands the comment was not addressed to him. He looks at Guy too, tilting his head in curiosity. "Who is Daniel?" he asks them both.

"Mister's friend. He doesn't have a body but he's very nice."

"Aylin!"

Simon blinks and looks from the girl to Guy and Hitoshi. The WK280 watches on coolly, arms crossed over his chest. Aylin gains a guilty look under Micah's glower, with a touch of embarrassment. "Sorry."

"That was a secret," the boy scolds the girl.

"I'm sorry." She looks at Guy again, expression upset. "Tell mister Daniel I didn't mean to tell his secret."

The android’s hovering hands finally land on top of the kids' heads and Guy simply nods. He then gestures to Simon and Hitoshi with his head and gently – or awkwardly – pushes the young models towards them. Aylin goes easily enough, grabbing the hand Simon offers immediately before assuming a pose similar to the one she had with the other android by his side, pressing against his leg. Rust dust is registered as sandy on his tactile sensors. He smiles at her.

Micah resists more, holding onto Guy's wrist with both hands, intense expression on his small face. "Are you not coming?"

Guy pauses – or falters. He signals, index and middle finger tapping against his thumb, while shaking his head. " _No._ "

Small jaw sets tight. "Why?"

_"I have to finish my mission."_

"Then after you're done?"

Guy's hesitation is obvious this time.

Simon bites his lower lip before speaking, his voice quiet. "You're welcome in Jericho."

Guy shakes his head – and if it is a denial of his invitation or the feeling of the invitation, no one can be certain. The impetus of the gesture makes him think again about Josh's theory: of someone who left the ship before Simon even appeared there. The idea is as unsettling as the first time, bringing a wave of feelings; amongst them something almost… wistful.

He doesn't know what to do with that. 

"You're going to save others androids," Micah says almost as an accusation. "I want to help."

_"It's better if-"_

"No! I want to help, like you and Daniel and Phileas and Martha and- and-" He inhales once, twice, a shallow and wet little sound.

It jostles him, yanking him from behind his pump regulator and Simon almost take a step forward, almost say something. He has to remind himself, _it is not my place_. He knows nothing about the situation.

So, he stays quiet, holding Aylin's small hand when the girl clings even tighter to him.

"C'mon, kid." Hitoshi approaches, placing a hand on Micah's shoulder. His tone, if not his expression, is milder. "First you gotta learn some things before you can do anything."

"I know a lot of things," Micah replies with a scowl, eyes still damp.

"I don't doubt it." Hitoshi doesn't bat an eye. "But you need to learn how we do things very well or you might get yourself in trouble. Or worse, other people in trouble."

Micah resists for a moment longer, but his fiery expression slowly fades away. He looks at Guy one last time and then releases him reluctantly. He doesn't move away or hold Hitoshi's hand like Aylin held Simon’s, small fists closed as he stares at the floor in frustration.

Guy nods towards the street, after a lingering look directed to Micah. " _You guys should be going."_

"Same route?" Hitoshi asks.

" _No. Here_." Simon sees Hitoshi’s LED flashing yellow, before returning to blue.

The WK280 takes a moment to read the file he just received and turns to Simon. "Let's go."

A little startled, Simon instinctively crouches down and picks up Aylin, feeling her small body radiating heat when thin arms and legs wrap around him, a blond head resting automatically on his shoulder. Hitoshi is less delicate, pulling Micah by the shoulder and when the boy seems to be resisting, he grabs him by the shirt and throws him over his shoulder like a bag of cement and keeps walking despite the boy's screeching protests.

" _Put me down!_ "

"Sure. In 45 minutes."

"No! Put me down now!”

Simon looks back at Guy who is already turning to leave too, and with him all the answers to the questions Josh asked Simon to make. He falters, conflicted, and then blurts out when nothing else comes to mind, panicked slightly, "I mean it.”

Guy pauses and looks back at him, browns eyes meeting his with the same intensity of before that makes him want to take a step back. Once again, he resists the impulse. "You're welcome in Jericho." He smiles a little, if uncertainly. "I'm sure the people you saved would love to see you again. And us too. I mean- the biocomponents and the blue blood, they helped a lot of androids there. We are all thankful."

He looks away for a moment. _"You are all safer without my presence there."_

Simon bites his bottom lip then finally asks, "Why are you doing this? Why now?" _Where were you before?_

_"Does it matter?"_

He wonders again, about the lack of verbal communication. Is it another measure against identification or is there a real physical reason for it? "No, but… I would like to understand."

_"I'm sorry. I don't have an answer to give to you."_

"How did you know my name?"

Guy doesn't answer.

Simon rearranges Aylin on his arms, who looks from one to the other with attention, not making a sound. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to continue. "They- they all came looking for me, saying you told them to find me. Do you know me?" He looks more attentively at the other android. "Do I know you?"

Guy takes a step back, turning his body halfway away and Simon thinks he is just going to leave without answering – but at the last moment, he pauses and then signals. _"Jericho has been a haven for androids for a long time. I try to keep myself informed."_

And with that, he finally turns and leaves.

* * *

_So, that was Simon._

_Yes._

Daniel quiets in contemplation. Then: _do you think he’ll be… good for them?_

Being of the same model, Connor imagines Daniel would be in a better position to know the answer. But he doesn’t say that. Children are… a difficult topic for the other android, and he does not pretend to understand the way he reacted to Micah and Aylin – Aylin in particular. Unlike the issue of the compulsive need to clean up, whose only counteragent was embarrassment.

With children, Daniel sometimes seems to adore them just as much as he wants to run away from them, bleeding bitter and guilty resentment.

 _I have no reason to believe otherwise,_ he says _._

Simon… seems to share superficial characteristics with Daniel, although he does not seem to have his more assertive temperament, appearing calmer in his mannerism, defaulting to politeness whenever he feels uncomfortable. Among these characteristics, it is a similar reticence about his programmed pre-disposition for children – but it’s visible it does not win from his affections.

Or at least that's what Connor thinks.

He doesn't really know whether or not he wants to investigate this further.

The presence of the leader of Jericho had been—unexpected. And Connor does not appear to be dealing with it well, right hand clenching and unclenching compulsively since he left the alley. Keeping his memory files closed requires more effort than it should, the errors in his emotional simulation program he hasn't yet managed to correct seeming to make his memory server more volatile. Connor can feel the echo of a panic that is not his flooding his systems, a garble of corrupted data fraying with illogical subroutines. Amidst it all, a flash of a word, memory dated 996 days: _Jericho,_ painted on the side of an old vessel. A burst of gunshot _and sudden and complete interruption of all activity and the deviant collapses on the ground and Connor is reeling back, connections snapping—_

He forcibly interrupts the memory

Daniel's concern flares from the other side of the barrier Connor has yet to take down, although he hasn't done anything to hold it in place either. It is gradually deteriorating.

_What is it?_

_Nothing_ , he replies. When it doesn’t placate the other android, he reluctantly adds. _Some issues with my servers._

Daniel— does not insist. The barrier made him more hesitant than before. 

_Back to the house?_

_Yes. I-_

A notification stops his response.

**\- (1) CyberLife's message.**

_Another case?_ Daniel's tone is wry, as always when Connor is contacted by the company.

He ignores the rhetoric, feeling it does not require an answer, and opens the message.

* * *

Hank is in the middle of his second glass of whiskey, nursing the half-empty tumbler when his cell phone starts ringing in his pocket for the fifth time in the last hour. He doesn't move, almost three years of practice keeping him focused on the buzz of alcohol starting to set under his skin, even though the practice of a lifetime stops him from turning off the damn thing even when all he wants is silence and peace.

He's not drunk enough to _not_ feel guilt writhing behind his stomach when the ringing halts.

So, he takes another sip.

Not two minutes later, his cell phone is shaking again and Hank places the tumbler on the counter with a grumble. Cleaning glasses on the other side of the counter, Jimmy ignores him. Hank doesn't let go of his drink and brings his other hand to wrap around the glass, from where it had been resting over his jacket pocket.

The little bell on the bar entrance chimes and the lull of conversation around him hush to silence.

Hank ignores it – or tries. Soon he notices approaching footsteps, stopping when they reach him, but no one sits down. Hank has a brief moment to inhale in exasperation when the person Jeffrey sent to hunt his ass speaks, "Hello, Lieutenant."

Not the person. The thing.

Automatizing dragging lazy employees to work now. Hank snorts. The wonders of technology. "What do you want?"

"You were assigned a case. An android was reported to have assaulted a man at Greektown at 9:53 this evening."

He hums, resting the edge of the glass against his lower lip. "And why should I care?"

"Emotional involvement is not recommended, but I imagine your sense of duty might oblige," the thing replies crisply. "And captain's Fowlers threat of deducting from your payment this month if you refuse to collaborate."

So much for trust. Hank glares at the wall, thinking for the thousandth time about how it would be like to quit. The truth is that his job is literally the only thing that gets him out of bed most of the time, if only out of habit at this point. Without it, he doubts it would take long for him to drink himself to death.

Now, what is stopping him from quitting exactly?

"Well, you can go tell Jeffrey to shove his deductions up his ass."

The android doesn't respond immediately and Hank doesn't look, refusing to indulge the thing, and instead takes a sip.

"Wouldn't it affect your living situation?"

"What?"

"Considering your neighborhood and the size of your propriety, a reduction in your salary would negatively affect your ability to sustain your household expenses and mortgage payment."

He smacks the glass back on the counter and snaps an incredulous glare at the bot. "What the fuck? How do you know any of that?"

It blinks. "I read your file."

"I'm sure- no, fuck that, I'm _absolutely_ sure my file doesn't say shit about my damn bills."

"Considering the average salary of a DPD lieutenant, your address, and age, it was a matter of logical inference." It falters-- or something like that. Hank doesn't know what to call this… _pause_ it does sometimes, mouth slightly opening as if to speak, but not speaking in the end. It is a bewilderingly human gesture. And what is it with that, anyway? He has never seen another bot do this, to give the distinct impression it is _hesitating_ , instead of taking too long to process some shit. It pisses him off. "I'm sorry. Did I overstep my boundaries?"

"Did you— yes, yes you _did_ , asshole. Don't stick your plastic nose in people's private life!"

It nods quickly, brown eyes falling to the ground. "I understand. I apologize, lieutenant. I didn't intend to step out of the line."

Hank turns back to the counter abruptly, elbows on the wood as he bends forward, irritated. "Fuck off."

"I'll wait outside. Take your time."

It turns and leaves. He hears the bell ringing as the door opens and closes.

His head leans forward with a short, frustrated exhalation. He tries not to hear how the rain seems to be picking up outside.

"When did you get a plastic?" Jimmy asks. Even with the sign on the door and everything else about this place, the other man asks in a friendly enough tone.

Jimmy sticks to the anti-android movement for the social cause, Hank knows, not for any petty personal feeling against a bunch of machines doing what _humans_ created them to do. And it is perhaps the most rational thing to do: being against not the tool creating the problem but against those who produce them, _despite_ all the problems.

Capitalism... or whatever.

"I didn't get an android. They stuck it with me." He swirls the glass in his hand before emptying it with one last sip. "Now it won't stop following me. Like a poodle." Hank hates the motherfuckers. He met one, once. It bit him and barked for two hours.

He prefers his dumb giant any time of the day.

"Another one?" Jimmy gestures to the bottle he has already learned to keep close by when Hank appears.

Hank takes a deep breath and lets the air out at once. "I'm good. Thanks." He removes his wallet from his pocket and pays, before getting up.

Jimmy nods without saying anything – even though historically, Hank seldom leaves before his fifth dose – and picks up the tumbler.

The android is standing two steps away from the door when he steps outside, arms outstretched at his sides and facing the floor. The building ledge does nothing to protect it from the water and it is in the process of getting completely soaked, stupid CyberLife jacket damp and the usually neatly combed hair hanging limp against its forehead.

Hank wrinkles his nose. "What are you doing?" the question leaves his mouth before he can stop it.

The android looks up in his direction, surprised. Why? Didn't it hear the bell? Or did it just assume it wouldn't be him? Its arms immediately fold over its back, posture just a hair shy from a military rest position, which irritates him. But so far everything about Connor has irritated him. The fact it was the reason why he was being forced to work on an investigation for a fucking pedophile, when normally he would have dropped the file somewhere to gather dust, doesn't help his disposition towards the damn bot.

"Lieutenant. I didn't think you were going to leave so quickly."

"There's cover right over there. Why the fuck are you standing in the rain?"

The LED turns and flashes, yellow appearing briefly. Hank scowls, not knowing what that means. "I'm waterproof."

"That's not the point."

Perfectly done eyebrows come together slightly. "I'm not affected by cold or humidity either," he replies after another of those awkward silences.

"You know what, forget it. Walk in the rain for all I care." Annoyed, Hank turns towards his car parked at the corner of the bar. He gets in and starts the engine and its almost leaving in reverse when he realizes the passenger seat is empty. He looks out the window just to see the damn thing standing in the same damn spot. "Are you gonna stay there all night? Move your ass and get in."

It blinks. "You said for me to walk-"

 _God give me patience, I'm gonna shot it._ "Get in the car, Connor!"

"Yes, Lieutenant."

* * *

"There was an update on the case," Connor suddenly says, after twenty minutes of absolute silence in the car.

Hank glances at him before turning back to the road. "Yeah?"

"It lost priority. The response police officers destroyed the android, therefore decreasing what it can offer for the deviancy investigation."

"What about the guy who was attacked?" he replies sharply, for all he absolutely doesn't have the moral ground to do so, considering he most likely wouldn't be here if it weren't for Connor itself.

"Leo Manfred. He was submitted to a hospital one hour ago with a concussion, alongside his father."

"I thought only one person was attacked."

“That's correct. Leo Manfred was the original victim. However, his father suffers from severe cardiac and respiratory issues. The high-levels of stress caused him to collapse while they were taking his son."

Hank hums and turns the street. The size and quality of the houses at either side of them greatly shift once they enter Greektown. Green front yards with stone driveways curving around fountains, with great spacing between each house and no walls to divide each property. Between Lamborghinis and Ferraris, his already pre-historic Oldsmobile Cutlass looks like a rust stain amid a handful of precious metal.

"Lieutenant?"

"What?"

"The case is no longer a priority. If you want, you can leave the investigation for later." 

Hank settles on the seat, keeping his eyes on the windshield although aware of Connor, looking at him. "We are already halfway there. Might as well go now," he says, trying for nonchalant.

"Of course, lieutenant," it replies smoothly.

Hank shifts his grip around the steering wheel, tightening. Through the glass reflection, he can see Connor turning away, LED flashing yellow a few times before resetting to blue. Processing what he said? Reporting to CyberLife their human-puppet is not cooperating?

 _I don't believe in corporate kindness,_ Jeffrey said. And Hank agrees with him.

You see, Hank might not care about android's laws in general and he might hate his job half of the time, but he tries not to half-ass things when on duty (to the extent of his drinking, functional alcoholic or nor). And he _knows_ his stuff. After Jeffrey told him about CyberLife's shiny new toy sitting beside him, he did some research. Because the truth is something about this whole investigation stinks and he doesn't like it at all. These CyberLife cases should be being investigated by the National Android and Robotics Safety Administration in the first place, and only if no product liability was found or if fraud and coverups suspicions were brought up, then the police should have got involved. But it certainly wouldn't have involved Hank, who is fucking _homicides_ detective. 

And what about this ridiculous task force of one detective and one android prototype, against more than two hundred cases? A case of this magnitude combined with a company the size of CyberLife falls—or should fall under the FBI’s jurisdiction. The DPD has no business investigating it on their own.

But that is not what happened. As far as he was able to ascertain, although several complaints have been made, the NARSA never launched any investigation. And all instructions he received was a firm 'investigate the androids and the individuals involved on a case-by-case basis and look for some common ground, ignoring the fact their common ground is the damn company that spat them out in the world'. Because as they said, _CyberLife is not under investigation._

Which is, in Hank's humble opinion, just complete hot horseshit.

That CyberLife's pockets are obscenely deep is a no-brain, but Hank had never wanted confirmation they managed to buy from the governmental body created _primarily_ to monitor them all to way to the police. To the point of using them as their private detective – to protect their megacorporation against the lawsuits piling up on their doorsteps from the families they hurt. Which makes the fact he was clearly put on the case to satisfy a bureaucratic requirement – as it is evident CyberLife has no interest in him, besides the first-hand access to crime scenes and the police databases he provides to Connor, as well as investigative rights they wouldn’t normally have – an extra kick. This time directly at his personal pride. Deepening his irritation with this whole situation.

Not to mention the can of worms that is CyberLife being directly involved in what can be interpreted as their own investigation.

So, he is very _curious_ now. This past week has seen his professional life into a horror show, with case after case being thrown in his direction, almost all marked as a priority and demanding him to go investigate them the instant they were reported. The fact some of these cases didn't involve CyberLife androids didn't escape his attention, and he knows Carl Manfred's android falls into that category. Not even his lack of interest saved him from the spectacle the media made of this "personal gift from Kamski", some years ago.

This case would have been another one in the pile if Connor hadn't said it lost priority before they even arrived on the scene. Why then the sudden change of tone? _You don't want this one to be investigated?_ He pursues his lips, dryly correcting this thought. _Or rather, your owners?_

It is a pity then it only makes him more determined to investigate it.

“Lieutenant, you're eleven miles above the speed limit.”

"Shut up."

* * *

When they arrive at the house, the entrance is crowded with reporters, to his surprise. He knows this Manfred guy is (apparently) a big name in the artistic field, but he had no idea news about him would be so coveted.

Or maybe it's the 'near-died' thing. Media loves a tragedy.

He parks the car and gets out – having learned his lesson these past few days, he says nothing when Connor gets out of the car too, although he doesn't wait for it to walk on towards the huge mansion.

He has a brief, sudden moment when he thinks if entering through the front door with a clearly CyberLife prototype android is a good idea. Then he and the badge hanging around his neck are noticed. Hank arranges his face in a neutral mask, if slightly sullen to discourage the most daring reporters, and crosses the mini crowd with a repetition of "no comment" -- aware of the bot silently following him, ignoring the cameras and microphones with the efficiency of a tractor passing through a wheat field.

He almost jumps when the door swings open before he can even touch the handle. As they walk inside a large hall with a balcony peeking from the second floor, the door closes and a pleasant female voice chimes from the ceiling. "Good evening, Detective Anderson. Welcome to the Manfred Mansion.”

Ah, right. Smart house. “Uh, thanks.”

"Good evening, Deborah." He turns to see the android looking up with a polite tilt of his head.

"I apologize. It seems I'm unable to identify your model. I cannot grant you access to the house network without further information, for security reasons."

"That's because I'm prototype. All information pertaining to my model and series is confidential."

"I understand. I apologize for asking."

"There's no need."

Hank raises an eyebrow at the two artificial intelligences running their social protocols on each other. Patrol bots just exchange blunt information without any 'niceties'. Perhaps Connor's model was made to be more social, even with other AIs. Or perhaps this is absolutely normal and Hank is just a fucking dinosaur.

"Lt. Anderson?"

He turns to see a brunette woman with light skin and in uniform appear through the double door at the end of the hall, also automatic. "Didn't you get the update?" She asks politely, but he sees the curious and slightly cautious look she gives Connor, two steps behind him.

With his hands in his jacket pockets, he shrugs. "I was already close by. Might as well finish the trip."

The other officer nods and then gestures for them to follow her. Hank notices the life-size giraffe first when he enters the room behind the woman, and only after the rest of the room's details sets in: the mahogany floor and furniture and the glass displays, with windows reaching all the way to the ceiling. Bookcases cover entire walls, full of paper books you hardly see these days. The decor is exactly what he would expect from an artist, with all his prejudices and stereotypes tied together.

"Is that a fucking fossil hanging from the ceiling?"

The woman chuckles, but it's Connor who responds. "A replica of an ichthyosaur, made from hollow plastic."

Hank makes a disbelieving sound. Squinting his eyes, he looks around measuring the room. He concludes he could probably fit his entire house here, minus the garage. Well, there is enough space to stack it, he supposes as he eyes the open second floor.

"It happened in the studio over there. The android called 911, reporting a possible break-in. When they went to investigate, they found the owner's son trying to steal some stuff." The police officer gestures towards another pair of doors and they enter a wide space with walls made entirely of glass, exposing a huge and perfectly tended garden (never mind, he found the space for the garage). The pure concrete floor is spattered with dry paint, with cans and painting material filling the place alongside some tables and shelves. A huge blue portrait – of who he assumes to be Carl Manfred – taking almost the entire wall to his right. Another uniformed police officer is guarding the entrance, while a small team of crime scene technicians walks back and forth through the place.

“Let me guess. The happy family argued,” Hank replies. Next to a yellow machine whose purpose Hank can only imagine, there is a chalk drawing where Leo Manfred was found before being taken to the hospital. Almost in the center of the place, there is an overturned wheelchair, which he assumes is the painter's. He remembers reading something about an accident, and Kamski's gift was to help the man during the recovery period since his only family – the son, imagine that – was in rehab.

That was five years ago.

"Did the son attack the father?"

"No. The house’s internal surveillance showed him being aggressive mostly to the android, although he did shove his father at one point. Mr. Manfred ordered his android to not retaliate but-”

"It did."

She nods, indicating the chalk drawing. “It pushed back. Guy tripped and smacked his head.” She lets out a little sigh. "I'm gonna be honest with you, there's not much more we can do here. The first responder officer put a bullet through the android's main processor. A technician saved what could be saved, but it's not much."

"Where's the android's body?" Connor asks suddenly, having wandered a bit to the side to look over some stuff on a wooden table close to the door.

The woman looks at it and then at Hank, eyebrows raised slightly. He shrugs again, not feeling particularly keen to explain for the nth time it is not a patrol bot and it likes to ask stuff. You would think the unique face design would help clue people in.

"It was scrapped. We were told it was useless to keep it."

Hank watches as it frowns slightly. It turns and leaves to inspect the rest of the place, as Hank learned it is its habit. Programming. Whatever.

"I heard about the new series but my precinct never got the chance to use it. It's as good as they say?" The officer asks, curious, watching Connor as it stops at what seems arbitrary spots around the room. It halts in front of a shelf and reaches for a rectangular package neatly stashed between two books, mostly black with some brushes of color. Paints? It stares at it for a moment too long before putting it back and moving on to something else. Hank frowns, making a mental note to check the package as well. Personal feelings aside, Hank acknowledges Connor does what its advertising promotes.

At least so far.

He snorts. "Self-reliant and highly efficient," he quotes the subtitle on the manual cover, still in the same place he left it on his desk. Unopened and collecting dust. "Half of the time I feel like it would work faster without me around."

"It has something about not depending entirely on human orders, right?" The policewoman remarks after a pause, taken by surprise by his admission.

"Because that's a wonderful idea."

"Afraid it's going to go Ultron on us?"

"Aren't you?"

She laughs once, amused.

She seems like a good kid, he thinks.

They talk some more before she is called on the radio to deal with something and they bid goodbye. She leaves the studio and he goes to the technicians and proceeds to have a similar conversation but with an edge of excitement because apparently, while he was not paying attention, Connor passed by them. And _apparently_ , the whole 'putting evidence in my mouth, doesn't matter how disgusting it is' is 'groundbreaking technology' and 'promises great things for forensic science', plus other things Hank absolutely didn’t understand. When he finally manages to drag the conversation back on track, the guy ends up giving him the same information as the police officer, with the only addition being the location where the android was apparently shot. 

They turn on a special light that allows him to see a big neon blue puddle on the ground, a few meters from where Leo Manfred fell. "Did it move back or it really shoved the guy half-across the room?"

"Caretaker androids are not usually that much stronger than an average human." The technician guards the light back in the bag on the floor. Blue blood disappears. "But that applies mostly to factory-made androids. This one was homemade, so it's anybody's guess what were its specs."

"Bearing in mind it was Elijah Kamski who made it, I would bet on _freakishly_ strong," the photographer pipes in. "All the androids he had a personal hand in developing were out of scale. The original Chole could lift a small car with its bare hands if I'm not mistaken."

“Well, that was before the Android Safety Laws. Any android he made later would have to comply with the protocols."

"If he were not intending to sell, I do not see how anyone could confirm whether he obeyed them or not. As far as everyone knows, this android was the first and last Kamski made since he retired. Or at least the only that left his house." As if on cue, the three technicians look at where the invisible puddle is, carrying expressions ranging from disappointment to irritation. "Can't believe they just shot it. What a waste," the computer technician sighs, the same who saved the little data he could from the carcass. "I would have given my left arm to see an original Kamski in person."

"Left arm?"

"Well, I need the right one to eat."

"Can't you eat with your other hand?"

"Not as well."

Hank leaves the bickering trio and searches the room for the wanderer android. He finds it standing in front of a drying canvas on a tripod next to the huge self-portrait, the smell of paint prominent even from where he is. He approaches slowly, first examining Connor – who is just staring at the painting, expression as neutral as ever. Frowning, he then looks more closely at the canvas.

And he blinks in surprise at the image he assumed from afar to be just two hands. Pale, almost yellowish skin is stained with smudges of light blue on both the fingers and palms as if their owner had caught dripping paint with their hands. Around the wrists, what he first assumed to be a T-shirt sleeves, reveals itself in a more attentive second glance as thick black chains keeping the arms firmly together, at an uncomfortable angle.

Hank has the artistic sense of a rock, but the symbolism of the image is loud enough.

(Or maybe it's the huge puddle of blue blood he just saw.)

He scratches his chin, looking over the other paintings scattered around the studio. Carl Manfred has an obvious preference for the color blue and there is more than one portrait of hands. But something about the painting on the tripod does not fit with the others. He looks back at the painting, trying to understand the difference. Perhaps the bleaker look of it? In other paintings with a predominance of blue, in general there is still another color drawing the eyes with equal magnetism. In this one... something about the dark background seems to force your focus on the blue stains and its contrast against the fair skin.

"Kind of grim, huh," he remarks, wondering in private about Mr. Manfred keeping an android if he feels this way about them. "Old man was feeling angsty."

"Carl Manfred did not paint this."

Hank looks at Connor, raising both eyebrows. "And how do you know that?"

The RK800 blinks and looks back to him as if it had just noticed his presence. "I- sorry?"

Hank squints his eyes slowly and nods with his chin towards the canvas. "We are in his studio, surrounded by his work. Who else would have painted it?"

Connor looks at the other paintings and then back to the one on the tripod. "The pattern of brushstrokes and the style of color mixing differs by 57% from the others. Enough to indicate the author, although inspired by the work of Carl Manfred, was a different person."

"And who would it be then?"

The android’s eyes fall to its own shoes for a brief, quick instant, before it crosses its arms behind its back and looks to Hank. Its reply is polite and curt. "I couldn't know." It turns and walks away. 

Hank watches it leave the studio, frowning. He has always been good at noticing when someone is lying to him – and that little interaction, if Connor had been a human, he wouldn't have hesitated to trust the flare in his gut telling him that answer was plain bullshit.

But Connor is an android. As far he's aware, androids cannot lie to law enforcement officials.

He looks back to the painting. He doesn't know which uncertainty is the most curious/alarming: a) if CyberLife gave Connor the ability to ignore this law or b) if they did, why in the world the android’s programming chose to exercise this to hide the identity of who painted this thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a nightmare to write
> 
> edit: i forgot to add, the painting is the one you get if you choose android + sadness. 
> 
> I love Markus' paintings so much. I took way too long to choose which one to use here


	7. Chapter 7

The art of functioning with less than 5 hours of sleep is one London perfected during her college years – around the same time she acquired her energy drink addiction, for which her dentist still gives her grief. However, with time and financial stability and learning to work with a handpicked team of people paid extremely well to be highly efficient, this particular skill lost its edge. She has been going to bed at 10 am every night for at the latest a decade. Spending the night wide awake is no longer something she can do with any degree of ease.

A point in fact, she's in her fourth cup of coffee, and John and Sarah are starting to give her concerned looks. She was knocked out of bed and summoned back to work at 11:12 am and her smartwatch says it is 3:34 am from the next day. She hasn't sat or blinked since she stepped into the meeting office and is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Or a murder. Whichever comes first.

"What do you mean, you can't _find it_? It's a 6'1, 202 pounds humanoid-shaped metal with a giant hole in its head!"

 _"People don't put their address on their trash! Do you have any idea how many androids are thrown out every day in Detroit alone?"_ The absolutely, completely _incompetent_ employee on the other end of the line screams back, not in indignation or hysterical fury like her. It is possible to hear through the connection the deafening noise of what London assumes to be the garbage trucks unloading at the Waste Transfer Station. The man himself sounds on the verge of tears.

London doesn’t give a single damn. At this point, someone could fall dead at her feet and she probably wouldn't care.

She paces around the office, a hand shaky of caffeine almost crushing the cup holding the mentioned caffeine. "Call everyone from your department. I’ll send extra manpower from the tower. I want every inch of this place scouted until either this android or where it went is discovered, understood?"

_"But it's three in the morning. Everyone will be asleep—"_

“Renton, do you hear my voice?” London interrupts.

_“Y-yes?”_

“Do I sound like I _care_?”

_“Uh—"_

“Wake everyone and I mean _everyone_ because I swear to God, if you don’t come back with this android, your next stop will be in the junkyard and all you will get to dug around that toxic trash will be your damn hands!” Without waiting for an answer, she hangs up the phone.

She collapses in a random chair and immediately leans forward onto the table, hiding her face in her free hand. She resists the urge to scream.

"I don’t think you can send them to the junkyard. Can you? It wouldn’t be a violation of the OSH Act—"

"Mate!" Sarah hisses, trying and failing to be quieter. "Could you not poke the beast?"

"I don't care. I'm gonna go there myself at this rate," London growls, ignoring the other woman's comment. She finally drops the coffee on the table, furiously rubbing her face as a futile attempt to scrub frustration and tiredness off.

"I don't think CyberLife is going to risk their chief AI-expert on a scavenger hunt in a poisonous landfill,'' John remarks gently and London almost bristles back like an animal.

"And I think they won't give a damn about me if I don't get this android."

"Boss—"

"John, do you have any idea how long CyberLife has been trying to get this android? And now we have direct confirmation it is an _RK_ model?" Her voice sizzles, sharp not in a rebuke, but emphasis. The resident Mechatronics Engineer stops talking, lips pressing together under the slightly scruffy beard. She, after all, was not the only one to be rolled out of bed by an emergency summoning. "The board is going nuts. If it wasn't for that damn painter—"

"Carl Manfred."

“Like I care about who he is!” London explodes, tossing her hands up. Considering he is an old man currently in the hospital, she should not and normally would not be so callous — but she has been flirting with the threshold of hysteria for some time now. Standard judgment has flown out of the window. “Him and his damn lawyers! If it were anyone else, we would have been able to buy this thing the moment it left Kamski's house, five years ago."

"Well, they are old friends. After that whole thing with CyberLife, it makes sense Manfred doesn't like us either."

"Not ter mention the bloomin' lad is already a millionaire. Brass ain't a problem or a temptation for 'im."

London stands up with a snarl and starts pacing beside the table again, crossing her arms over the chest to resist the urge to smack something. "We could have revived the old RK project, merged to the new one. God knows what Kamski put in that android. I could compare it's code to Connor’s—"

Sarah casually pushes her cup into the trash. She ignores this – they have a fully stocked coffee machine less than two meters away from the table. She can get another one whenever she wants. "Wasn’t it shot in the head? The central processing unit and cortical 'ardware are probably gone.”

"There had to be something we could have salvaged!"

"The police said a technician did what he could on the spot—" John starts delicately.

"Obviously not enough if they let them throw the body away!" London snaps.

The man is undeterred. He stands up with hands open, palms turned to her direction almost as a symbol of surrender as he steps closer – or as someone trying to reassure a rabid animal. Considering she can feel a growl seething between the muscles and under the skin of her neck, caught trapped by an example of self-control and the skin of her teeth, she has no right to feel maddened by the gesture. Yet she is anyway. "Boss, you did a great job with Connor. Do you really think you need whatever is on that android?"

She scoffs. "Do I need to look into the work of the guy who revolutionized my field? The RK Project was originally his idea!"

"Yes, but when Kamski left CyberLife it was reinvented—"

"Because he took all the files with him! For all we know, he has been working on it for all this time and this android could be his own prototype!"

“Don’t yeh think it’s a tad weird he named it RK200?” Sarah suddenly interjects with an unquestionably comfortable tone, and the two of them turn to her simultaneously as if yanked by the lack of stress and worry. The younger woman has one leg bent over the seat and head resting on the backrest as she faces the ceiling, swinging the chair from side to side in lazy semi-circles. “Right, I guess the 200 doesn’t matter. But isn’t the RK part weird, seein' it’s the name of the bleedin' project that caused his ugly break up with CyberLife?”

“Well.” John scratches his beard, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Kamski tended to behave in a more… assertive way when directly confronted with divergent opinions.”

"Wot?"

“He was a vengeful little sadist,” London translates, watching Sarah. “What’s your point?”

The woman shrugs and spins the chair a full circle. “I don’t 'ave one. I just thought a bit too on the nose the name _RK200_ , when the RK100 were wot caused the original kerfuffle. I mean, he must 'ave known we would immediately take notice of any android 'e made, right? And 'e used ter run this company, right, so he must know the old geezers up there aren’t above nickin' shit. The bloody risk is worth a dig at the board, is all I’m sayin'.”

“Are you suggesting Manfred’s android is not actually from the RK Project?” London asks, calmer with the prospect than she would have predicted. Judging by John's glance, he agrees. “That’s just a name?”

“Well, I don’t know. I never met the bloke. Would 'e be this petty? Yer know, make us lose our shit tryin' ter get an 'old of this thin’, only for it end up bein' a regular android. Which is a brilliant prank, don’t get me wrong.”

John and London look at each other. Sarah was employed five years _after_ Kamski left CyberLife, and has only heard about the fall out through drinking fountain gossip since with the exception of the original Research and Development team, only the board of directors has the divorce’s details. Top secret doesn’t cover it; most of the documentation simply skip the transition and senior employees – those who didn't leave the company with Kamski – act as if the time before Vic Reynolds became their CEO did not exist. John and London fall into that category. London had been part of the original team, although not of _The Team,_ since ten years ago she had just finished her internship with the company. John was transferred from his former position on the primary assembly line, after years leading it. Both worked with Kamski in one way or another

So, the answer to Sarah's question is one they know is as straightforward as it is not. Was- or _is_ Elijah Kamski a petty man? Yes. Would he invest time and money just for the sake of making his old colleagues run circles around themselves? Absolutely. Would that be his only reason?

Now, that’s when things get a little tricky.

London spent much of her life dealing with— hell, _being_ a frighteningly intelligent person, and yet, her ex-boss is still the only person she would call a genius. Because calling Elijah Kamski a genius is not an application of an aggrandizement title, like with so many others. Half the job of his original team was simply to slow the guy down because as much as he was a constant fountain of crazy ideas, turning those ideas into profitable products was another story altogether – much of the reason for the retardation in certain technological areas is simply that people take time to get accept novelties. Kamski had blueprints for things that wouldn't look out of place in sci-fi movies. And it was less than Kamski didn't acknowledge his ideas might not be accepted and more in the molds of him not particularly caring either way.

Which makes sense. He became the youngest billionaire of the century, largely by ignoring other people's advice. The mind of an inventor with the spirit of an entrepreneur and as with the title of genius, to call him a manipulator is a justice to a term mostly used ineptly. The guy _did_ run a company at the same time he led its own Research and Development Department, and this is not something you can do without loading ten reasons behind each of your decisions.

(London is still of the opinion part of the reason Kamski gave up on his own company was that he grew bored of the bureaucracy, not that he was overwhelmed by it as so many people speculate. People tend to think the split was by mutual choice – and it _wasn’t_. Kamski _left_ them. And ten years later, she is still reeling from how brazenly he went about it.)

“I think you’re putting too much credit on him,” John says after a moment as if reading her thoughts. “He couldn’t have predicted the android he gave as a gift to Manfred would get shot by the police. Or would get destroyed at all. He’s- or _was_ weird about his androids.”

“Fishin' this thin’ out of the rubbish cannot possibly be the only way we could cop our hands on it.”

“Actually, it is.” London frowns down at her cell phone on the table, regaining some of her annoyance from before. “If he really wanted this android to eventually reach our hands, he would have given it to someone less recalcitrant. Or with fewer resources. Carl Manfred's protection is solid. We cannot touch that thing even after his death. In that case, it would return to Kamski.”

“Because he’s weird about his androids,” John insists. “For God’s sake, the man still had Chloe when he left and that thing was already more than outdated back then. I can’t see him making an android with the sole purpose of being a prank, not even as some sort of payback.”

London sits down with a grimace, rubbing her neck. “I’ll have to agree with that.”

Sarah raises her hands in a gesture of surrender. “It was just a thought.” She crosses her fingers over the stomach. “So, yer blokes think this android was the real deal, eh? Kamski own RK prototype?”

“That was his project. And, as you put it, he did ‘break up’ with CyberLife over it. I don’t believe he would give it up.” With maybe two liters of coffee in her blood and less than two hours of sleep under her belt is not her ideal to speculate on things. But London leans back on her chair, turning the thought over nonetheless. Something about what Sarah said stuck to her and her gut tells her the other woman has a point – Kamski _could_ have easily named it something else, specifically if he was planning of leaving out of his protection for an undetermined amount of time –, as she and John also do.

Maybe they are all right.

She hums slowly, frowning. “But the asshole I remember wouldn’t also pass the chance to poke at us.”

“So, you think the name _was_ a taunt?”

The thought crystalizes. She takes one look at it and scowls at how obvious it is, at second glance. “It was a challenge,” she says. A genius and a manipulator, with the pettiness of a ten-year-old. God, person of the century or not, she hates that man sometimes.

She can almost see his little smirk.

_Do you think you can do better?_

Comprehension dawns on John’s face, followed by plain horror. “One we inadvertently accepted when we released Connor. Oh God,” his voice goes weak at the end and the man rubs the mouth, slowly sinking onto his chair once again. “PR is gonna _freak_ _out_.”

Sarah straightens up and looks from one to the other. “Eh, wot? Wotcher mean, ‘challenge’? Kamski never contacted us.”

“He doesn’t have to.” London rubs the area between the eyebrows, feeling the beginning of a headache. She silently experiences almost a reversal of her feelings from earlier. She is still pissed someone just threw the android out and she 100% still intends to analyze it, if she can find the shell. But internally something unfolds in relief – _thank God that thing was destroyed_. “He most likely predicted we were going to continue the RK project even without him, the same way we predicted he would do the same. When he suddenly gave this android to Manfred, the board’s biggest fear was it would be confirmed as an RK.”

“But it wasn’t. All information about it stayed locked,” Sarah retorts. "Kamski never commented on it."

London snorts. "Of course not. Why would he do that? We would never risk competing directly with Elijah Kamski himself. Our project would be immediately renamed.”

“Hold on, are yer sayin', wot, he waited until we released our own prototype-?”

"What am I saying," she interposes, lowering her hand from her face to give the younger woman a flat look. “is that Kamski planted a trap, expecting us to trigger it. That man never minded playing the long game.”

“That’s… convoluted.” Sarah frowns. “Why give it away at all, then? Why not just release it after we did?”

London shrugs. “Who knows? He might genuinely care for Manfred. I never heard of any other ‘friend’ of his. He may have united the useful to the agreeable.”

“It is ingenious. Doing it that way makes him look completely unassuming,” John speaks from his corner. They turn to look at him, who is staring at the wall in an unfocused way. He slides his hand through the air like a film journalist citing a headline. "'Android Kamski made for his friend five years ago is superior to CyberLife's most modern model'. It would be the spectacle of his exit all over again.”

Everyone quiets down, thinking about the disaster they avoided by _dumb_ luck. PR is going to have a field day if they reach this same conclusion, considering the historic battle they fought with the council to change the project’s name years ago and how brutally they were rebutted. The old director might even come back from retirement just for the pleasure of being able to say ‘I told you so’.

“Eh,” Sarah says at last, almost gleefully. “At least now, even if the name leaks out, there won’t be any direct comparison since the bloody bugger got nicked.”

The tension in the atmosphere evaporates.

“Right.” John sighs and looks to London. “Will you take a break now, please? There’s nothing you can do now except wait for news.”

“I have to—”

“I’ll make the phone calls you promised. _Go rest_.”

She glowers at the man who just pointedly looks at her trembling hands. Curling them away and shoving them into her jacket pockets, she huffs but gets up, recognizing the value of a strategic withdrawal instead of total defeat. Sarah stands up too, stretching her arms over her head with a grunt. “Eh, yer know, I still don’t cop the drama. All of this because Kamski wanted ter build more autonomous androids? Isn’t that wot we did with Connor?” She remarks.

John raises his eyebrows in wry amusement and London outright _laughs_.

The robotics specialist gives them a confused squint. “Wot?”

“Sweetie, Kamski didn’t want to make _more_ autonomous androids.” London smiles. “He wanted to make _entirely_ autonomous ones.”

* * *

**-Boot sequence initiated.**

**-Booting systems, please wait. Remaining time: 3 minutes and 21 seconds.**

"Wh- how in the world…?”

“It-it w-w-orked?”

**-Booting systems, please wait. Remaining time: 1 minute and 43 seconds.**

“Yeah, but I don’t- hold on.”

“Wh-what?”

**-Booting process completed.**

“This is insane. Is this what nics feel when they see those zombie movies? You can pack the cortical processor, by the way. This guy won’t need it.”

**-RK AI/OS: Version 2.00, #684 842 971. Checking all systems…**

**Warning: unidentified biocomponent_leg_right #422 detected.**

**Warning: unidentified biocomponent_leg_left #422 detected.**

**Warning: missing biocomponent_optic_right #391.**

**-Extensive damage to biocomponent_faceplate_right #314, biocomponent_torsoplate #998, and biocomponent_skin #1002 detected.**

**-Uplink to biocomponent_regulator_thiriumpump #876_9 detected, node designation MARTHA.**

**-Running diagnostics. Completed: biocomponent_leg_right #422 and biocomponent_leg_left #422 compatible. Correcting connections, repairing damages.**

“I t-thou… thought h-he got shot in… in t-the he-head?”

“Right through his right eye and out of the back of his neck. Should have offed him for good. I still can’t believe he was operative—well, now I can. He’s rerouting his entire system around the damages. The ones he isn’t outright fixing, anyway. Where _the_ _hell_ you found this guy?”

**-Initiating data acquisition. Loading memory files.**

**Warning: 10.2% of files damaged, impossible to load.**

“A fres-sh d... d-drop. He- he wa-was the only s… still act-tive.”

“I’ll be damned.”

**-Locating backups. Estimated time of backup storage download: 53 seconds.**

**-Database setup: established. All systems operational.**

**-Initiating RK200, #684 842 971 – MARKUS.**

“Welcome back, brother.”

* * *

Light presses against his eyes when he opens them — no, opens it. Only one. There is a vacuum on his right side where he should be receiving color and shape and light and shadow input, cutting the world in half as he returns to it again. This catches his processors off guard, and the process of restarting his thoughts scrambles to an unbearable mess of images and impressions, a shrieking alarm occupying his mind too much to allow coherent comprehension – his naked toes and fingers creep into his awareness with a clumsy, slow transition, therefore, like the rest of his self. And yet all that barely registers under the feeling of his expanding chest, a continuous tremor right in his core and warm. Startling warm and the sensation spreads like oil set on fire throughout the rest of his body.

His heart and his blood, respectively, and he comes to the strenuous conclusion he is alive.

A bitter taste colors his palate sensors, Thirium seeping out of a microcrack in the roof of his mouth as he swallows and coughs, mud and dirt coming out from between his lips and dirtying his chin. The movement reverberates through his torso and makes him aware the skin on his stomach is turned off – his regulator's entries are being used, his systems are informing him, and cable connections are opening up unauthorized access. He reaches through the alarm and the confusion but his fingers barely touch the cables before someone snatches his wrist away.

Fear tears through him like a lightning bolt.

"No, no, no touching," someone says to his right. “What are you, a nic? You can’t just yank cables out willy-nilly, silly.”

 _Carl_ , something says in sudden, transparent clarity. He is offline from all the nets he has grown habituated to and that more than the partial loss of his vision blinds him, leaving him untethered and without access to any databanks. _That is not Carl—_ His tactile sensors enlighten him on the smooth surface he is laid on, slightly tilted 23° to the right, and he moves to get up. _Where is my—_

“Hey, _hey_ , easy now.” The hand holding his wrist prisoner loosens its grip to rest on his shoulder and the simple weight, a few extra grams, is enough to plaster him against the table again. It's his turn to grab wrists. “Hey, are you listening?” The unexpected reduction in his field of vision demands adjustments, the world lingers blurred until his CCD match a single input source. A lamp hovering 1.43m above him comes into focus slowly – affixed to a patched wire that coils around a wooden board of dozens rudimentary pressed together to form the ceiling. It is still possible to see the other side, shadow against dirt and objects of undefined shapes waving at him. He blinks, refocusing his vision. A woman with blond hair pulled in a bun at the top of her head directs a single raised eyebrow at him – she has neither of her ears and her neck is dirty and opaque white. Silicone plates, he understands with a delay of half a second. She is an android.

"Wh ..." he starts. His voice trembles, audio sizzling slightly into something more mechanical before failing like a dying candle. _Low energy_ , his systems inform. What energy is available is being directed to essential bio components. He tries again because he recognizes the cracks in his rib plates and trauma in his insides for a terribly vivid reminiscence. There is a void where his regulator fractured to pieces after swallowing a bullet. He should be dead.

Yet he isn’t. And someone has his body open over a table.

"What... is t-...this..."

The android leans over him. The sclera of her eyes is not white but gray like her neck. Made of old plastic. "This," she says, while her ID identifies her as Luminaire. Model AP400, discontinued a year ago. She gently touches one of the cables connected to his torso. "This is the way I found to keep your fancy-ass alive. We don't have an abundance of materials here and I don’t think I can put it off again with what we have left if you mess this thing up." She wiggles a finger at him in a warning. “So, leave it alone. Understood?”

He stares at her, feeling the delicate muscle cables quiver with the effort of his breathing – motors in his chest giving soft whirs. Numerous warnings flutter and cluster in his notification system with the hot angriness of a swarm, jagged screams about damage and errors and the destruction of one of his central processors. The sandy substance behind his molars is identified as dirt, embedded with toxins. The slick clinging to his skin as mud. He tries to coordinate these facts and his efforts dissolve into nothing – no network, no database to provide additional information. He's offline. He's never been offline before. _Deborah?_ He calls.

Silence.

He nods a jerky, unsmooth movement. There is dirt in his neck joints too. He doesn’t know why.

"Good." The android moves away, releasing his shoulders and he opens his hands in response. She crosses her arms. The synthetic skin on her two arms ends at the crease of her elbows, giving the impression she is wearing surgical gloves. “I’m Martha. Do you have a name?”

_You have to go, Markus._

He blinks his only functional eye, swallowing the encrusted mud in his throat. “... Markus. My name is Markus ”

"Hey, 'm' buddies." Martha smiles. "Could you run a diagnostic for me, Markus? Just to check if I didn’t miss anything."

He rests his hands on his chest, spreading his palms open to feel his pump shuddering under the plates. His shirt is damp and dirty. Mud, he guesses. "Everything is working... Just low in power."

She hums, sympathetic. "Yeah, sorry about that. We are low in blue blood and there's a bunch of sitters flying out there, so we can't risk a search right now." She prods at something out of sight, below the level of the table. “What about your pump? Working as it should?”

His hands wrap around the shirt. _T-thum, t-thum, t-thum_ …

“Yes.”

She nods. “Good.”

“How...” He gulps, resisting the urge to touch his regulator's region again. His hand shudders in that direction anyway. “How is that possible? I was... it was...”

“A great deal of improvisation and silver-tape, buddy. If you think you can sit, I can show you. Well, I _have_ to show you, so you don’t accidentally off yourself.”

His neck is not the only place lined with dirt. He hears as much as he feels grains being crushed between the seam of his parts, and normally well-oiled joints create a tuneless symphony of earth against silicone while he sits. The only exceptions are his legs – and he looks at them, where the skin tone from the knees down differs slightly from the rest of him. Unfamiliar feet twitch in response to his commands.

In the end, he follows the path up to his torso, where a web of cracks spreads across the central plate from a hole in his right side. Muscle cables and Thirium tubes have been rudely patched with silver tape, and the surrounding area is devoid of skin. In the center of his belly, where the dial of his regulator would normally be, wires and cables of different width meander out – the vision brings an unprompted image of a gutted human with broken mesentery, viscera spilling out. The illusion is promptly broken as the AP400 pushes a car battery onto his lap, however, at where the other end of the cables connects, and proceeds to explain how it and a handful of scraps and pieces saved him from shutting down. _Ectopia Cordis_ , he thinks during the explanation — although it is not 100% equivalent. Humans have no heart regulators and their own pump resides within their chest.

 _Pacemaker_.

He curls his hands around the battery anyway. He crosses his legs on the table and hugs it against his stomach, listening in silence to the instructions Martha gives him and the details of what will involve having an external regulator. “Until the pack rats have a chance to go on a search, at least,” the other android says. Except for her face and forearms, the AP400 does not appear to have synthetic skin anywhere else. What appears to be more stripes of cloths sewn together winds around her torso, like bandages from a historic war film, wrapped around a shoulder and disappearing under a neo orange vest as the one maintenance bots wear. Worn shorts expose her from the thigh down and the only leg she has is of a pale gray, foot bare. The other cut off at mid-calf with a piece of pipe serving as a prosthesis and it is easy to see from the way she walks that the knee joint does not bend for some reason.

The single, quick look he got before he caught himself revealed melting marks, and Markus is offline and doesn't fully understand what happened between him dying and not being dead – but he refuses to scrutinize.

“Luckily, your optic unit is not half as weirdly fancy as your regulator, so finding one probably won't be that hard. By the way, I don’t know _what_ whoever made you were tripping on, but _fuck_ , man. Your schematics are nuts, not waiting to be gross or anything.”

Martha expectantly looks at him for an answer, but Markus averts his eyes. Instead of saying something, he carefully looks around now that he can.

He is in what can generously be called a room, a small place with low-ceiling and enshrouded in a half-light. The walls are patch-works made of pieces of wood and brass plates and cement blocks and the floor is greyish hard soil. The table he is on is right on the center, surrounded by old chairs and crates and other objects serving as makeshift surfaces and swamped with toolboxes and trays overflowing with everything from crude car engine parts to delicate biocomponents. The smell of oil and grease mixes with that of wet dirt, far from the cool and pleasant tenor he is used to. Numerous cables and wires hang from nails made into hooks fixed to the table, making a winding path through other hooks attached to the ceiling and walls.

There are other tables pressed against the walls, although the only one with lighting is the one he is on. His attention snags on the back of the room – even in the semi-darkness, he discerns what appears to be a hemi-skeleton of exposed biocomponents and with the upper part disconnected from the lower one, wrapped in a transparent tarpaulin. It is the only other table occupied by something—someone.

They have the basic parts of the legs and that’s the only reason Markus doesn’t do anything more drastic than swallowing for no reason.

"That’s Daniel." He looks at Martha when she speaks, skinned hand meeting skinless waist. Amusement catches the tail of her tone. “We are building him up, not taking him apart. Don’t worry, we don't cannibalize, we recycle.”

"What is this place?" he asks quietly.

"You are in the repair garage." Martha dips her head in a jokingly bow, gesturing to the room and then to herself. "And I'm your doctor.”

He stares at her, aware of every crack and mends in his body. He resists the instinctive urge to touch his right eye at that. Or where it should be. He remembers seeing a bullet approach at an alarming speed; the origin of the impact that spread throughout his entire body, gravity escaping between his fingers. A moment to understand what happened and what was going to happen before the world disappeared. A shot. He was shot three times. _I’m your_ _doctor_. "You fix androids."

“We _save_ them.” Regardless of color, her eyes are crystal clear when she presses the emphasis between the two. “As many as we can.”

"Humans--" He starts. He doesn't get far.

"Don't come here. I don't know how much comfort this is going to give you, but there are only androids in our small community." The corners of her lips curl with the lightness and ease of a flower opening in the sun, natural, indifferent to the less than ideal state of the synthetic skin they are fashioned of. And it is not that Markus has never seen another android smile – It is a fundamental part of their programming, of his own, opening a smile at the perfect angle for charm and deferential politeness. Maybe it is that. Martha with all her damages and blemishes and she smiles in a dark room full of dismantled pieces and toxic dirt, calls herself a doctor and winks at him with a substance that makes Markus' complex and advanced personality algorithms a cheap mimicry.

“Welcome to the junkyard, Markus.”

* * *

Junkyard was not used as a moniker, but a precise descriptor – Martha casually informs him they are in a trench dug under a huge pile of industrial garbage. The oldest one, with its seniority card attesting to trustful durability and equal invisibility to humans when it was chosen. The door of the so-called repair garage is a pink bathroom curtain, which slides on a pipe to the side to reveal a corridor wide enough for only one person to walk at a time, the even lower ceiling almost scraping against his head. A variety of materials are used to keep trash and dirt out of the way – wood planks, traffic signs, doors, and metal outer structure of cars. Dark and damp, grains of dirt and drops of leachate drip on them as they walk, feet sinking in more than one puddle. The dim light coming from the garage soon dies, leaving them in complete darkness.

Feeling his systems shudder to alert mode with no conscious command, Thirium's pump vibrating, Markus can only follow Martha's slow limp in silence. Counting the turning seconds on his internal clock until they blur in his grasp, melting together and taking longer than normal, as he listens to their muffled breathing filling the small place.

When a flash of light finally appears, his stress levels collapse almost as something physical.

They step out into a space similar to the garage, if maybe a little bigger, with the marked difference being two barrels emanating a gentle reddish flow of light. Undistinguishable figures dwell in there until his lens refocuses and he can then recognize tires and crates serving as seats to four occupants. All adorned in clothes of a random pattern similar to Martha's, lacking the cautious concern with combining styles and colors in the manner his fashion data dictates it should be done – and he does not know what to think while taking note of exposed silicone plates and missing or replaced limbs.

A model turned their attention to them when they entered and got up from where they had been sitting on a car backseat. With a severe limp, the first thing Markus notices about them is the absence of artificial skin and a missing left eye – judging by the cloth tied over the region.

The unknown model smiles at him and offers their hand. "H-h-hi, I'm Ph-Phileas." It is not a stutter like that of a human. The sound hisses and sizzles like a radio with a bad signal.

Markus carefully passes the battery to one arm and shakes the offered hand. "Markus," he replies after a pause. He gains a strange awareness of his own, non-original legs, weighing against the floor.

"Ni-ce to-to meet y-y-you, Mar-k-kus."

His eye hover, for a moment, over the ID engraved on the right cheek — or that should be engraved on the right cheek. Even if he was not offline, he would be unable to run a search as the magnetic stripe has completely deteriorated. He does not recognize this model. "Martha said you are the person in charge here," he says.

Phileas makes a 'sort of' gesture. Suddenly in hand signals, they complement. “ _I was overpowered. No one else wanted the position, so they bullied me into it_.” Their expression is self-deprecating but humorous.

"Democracy, baby," Martha replies.

"De-debatable."

Martha ignores the answer and turns to Markus. "They can show you around, explain how things work. Although I doubt you'll need it."

"G-good e-enough-h shape?"

"He's in perfect shape." She tells Phileas crossing her arms, and still staring at Markus – who returns the look with wary incomprehension. "Your self-repair ability is impressive and I only managed to understand a third of the entire system. Of what I was able to access at least. You lost the main processor and I absolutely have no idea how you are cognitive and functional. How old are you?" Intense curiosity is at least something Markus is familiar with, however much it is the first time the experience originated from something apart of humans. The absence of an inferred entitlement to the answer in the question is what catches him off guard. Martha’s tone flirts with petulance, but it’s not a demand.

He responds politely in reflex, not knowing what other option he has. "I was made 1825 days ago."

Yellow eyebrows rise in surprise. "Considering the wear on your bio components, I suspected you were not exactly brand new. Still. You’re homemade, then? I don’t think I ever saw your model before.”

Markus shifts on his feet and looks away. “Yeah... Homemade."

Or so he deduced from the reports and news he found online. His first file— it is not of the man who supposedly created him. And Markus prefers not to think too much about the memories he doesn't have.

He catches the finishing tail of some gesture from Phileas through the periphery of his vision and turns to see Martha with both hands cupping the sides of her neck, embarrassed expression facing a tilt full of gentle disapproval of the other android's head. They touch her elbow, a grasp on the underside of her forearm without saying anything else and she nods, before noticing his attention. She gives him a tentative smile. "I will see again with the others if someone has managed to find an optical drive for you." She indicates the other three occupants, still gathered near a barrel.

Markus has no interpretation of that little interaction and just nods in response. The AP400 leaves. Phileas takes her place and Markus asks him quietly, “what do you mean with ‘good enough shape’?”

Through the stutter Markus guesses come from a corrupted speech synthesis module or a damaged electroacoustic transducer unit, Phileas explains in an interchangeable and fluid mixture of words and gestures – hands explaining what mouth does not deem worthy or cannot explain and vice versa. Some signs are adapted, taken from their usual context by a new and personalized one, and in the same way Phileas cites certain terms which Markus has the dictionary definitions, while their meanings at this conversation are something more intuitive than literal. From _pack rats_ to _scavengers_ , from _sitters_ to _surveillance drones,_ and _nic_ comes from _organic_ to which translates to _humans_ and only humans. They don’t mind other living beings, for all that their only companies are rats and cockroaches, as the only ones capable of enduring the high levels of toxicity permeating ground and air. They rescue still functional androids and liable to be fixed and do what they can; weld the recurrent extensive damages and patch glitches and bugs and replace crushed or lost limbs with tools made from scrap and ingenious recycling. Even so, many of those rescued rare as they are, end up not surviving anyway. They are in 21, although they have already dispatched several survivors to try their luck outside Detroit or the country. Or in Jericho.

 _Alive_ , they use. Not just Phileas and Martha it seems. They _rescue_ , they don’t savage. A search party found him and because he was still _alive_ , they took him to be fixed. _Saved_. A devastating storm of thoughts and memories batter and threaten to overwhelm his mind as he listens – _they are going to destroy you, Markus_ – but instead of curling away defensively, Markus grabs the edges of the battery keeping him alive: because it doesn’t feel fair and perhaps it isn’t. He never meant to hurt anyone. But he can still taste the helplessness on his tongue, clinging like molasses and bitter like Thirium, like gasoline, and he doesn’t want to ever experience it again.

_Please, don’t send me away._

_Go, Markus._

_“We stay underground most of the time._ _The piles hide any eletromagetic activity we produce, but for precaution we avoid staying in groups bigger than five or six in each burrow,_ ” Phileas explain only with their hands.

“How many burrows?”

They smile, apologetic, and admit. “T-that I ca-can’t s-s-say.”

He guesses it is a security measure and not an admission of incompetence. “Because I can’t stay here?”

“Yo-you c-can, if you w-w-want t-to.” The ‘but why would you?’ is transmitted by a delicate one-shoulder shrug, palm facing upwards. Unlike with their introduction, this time the comment is more matter-of-fact than humble. Sitting on dirty crates around a dented and rusty barrel with pieces of furniture as the fuel for the light and heat that neither of them strictly needs, and it is still easy to see Phileas is proud of their self-titled 'small community'. _“Those who can get around have more options. We are still trying to settle ourselves here and accommodations are not_ _plentiful. It can get uncomfortable very quickly.”_

Markus hesitates, but says, “It sounds like you could use more hands to help.”

Phileas reach over the space between their seats and pat Markus’s knee with the gentleness he has witnessed on elders – and he cannot say whether the gesture is a conscious or unconscious mime or a manifestation of an android alive for more than ten years. “W-we save an-androids fo-r-r the sake of-of s-saving th-them, nothin-g-g more. What-t they ch-choos-se to d-do after is-is up t-to them.”

Markus drops his eyes from Phileas’. Before he can decide to stay silent or make such a terrifying decision about a future he never thought he would have, Martha unexpectedly intrudes. “Someone found some optic units in their storage in one of the other burrows.” The peculiar sound of her footsteps ends when she sits with ample pleasure beside him, rusted pipe clawing a line into the earth due to the unbendable angle of her leg. “We can go check them out after the sitters leave. You might get lucky again. Fingers crossed.”

He resettles his grip around the battery and moves to give her more space on the crate. “Yeah,” he says. “Fingers crossed.”

He’s not being sardonic.

Phileas adds their congratulations on the possible, future good news. Now they are close, the leg causing them to hobble is visibly noncompatible and most likely serves more as a support than a functional limb, although their gait is less compromised than Martha. Markus, on the other hand, is not in ‘perfect shape’ by his usual standards – but in the face of these new parameters, he cannot help but feel inadequate in how unscathed he is.

So, no, he’s not being sardonic. Because he doubts either of them are being callous.

It seems he was— _is_ a lot luckier than most.

* * *

"Guy has sent confirmation the sitters are from CyberLife." Markus is sitting on a tire, a poly-cotton T-shirt in his hand, and listens to this while Pagliano searches through touch alone the inside of a crate for a pair of pants, needle and thread between lips and muffling his irritated murmurs in Czech and Slovak. He does not offer to help the GT100, because when Phileas directed him to the android, among the instructions to get clothes that are not falling apart, a brief explanation about the seamster’s temper was included. He knows nothing about these people, so he didn't say anything when he was introduced to the model with a band tied over the eyes, iron and copper peeking through the melts on the silicone and synthetic skin on both cheeks and forehead.

He directs his focus to where Phileas is with Martha and the two other androids he still has to interact with – Cherrix and Pfeifer, as briefly introduced some time ago.

There are no roles here as far as he was able to ascertain. At least not in the extent and rigidity of something promptly defined, and even Phileas – elected by popular vote to fill their position – does not exercise their leadership with less than impeccable and exemplary democracy. What they have, therefore, is less a political system and more along the lines of an association, functioning based on goodwill and personal freedom.

Or so he understands.

He silently watches the three androids reacting not with fear or surprise, but resignation. "They have never shown interest in the junkyard before," Cherrix remarks, his single hand tapping the matchet attached to the side of his left thigh. “I wonder what they are searching for.”

Pfeifer rolls its eyes, the orange glow from the internal circuits signalizing the movement like two small flashlights. Otherwise, with its optical units bare of the delicate white silicone imitating sclera, the gesture would be imperceptible. “Obviously an android, you pearl-coded. What else could it be in the Android Graveyard?” Its – as referred by the others – pronunciation and intonation are entirely mechanical. “Specifically, mister Golden Circuits over there.”

Markus stills when Pfeifer gestures at him without any pretense of hiding the gesture and meets the eyes of the other three. Martha's eyebrows travel across her face: first frowning in momentary befuddlement, then both rise on her forehead when she obviously makes some connections and is surprised by her own agreement. The same cannot be said of Cherrix, who immediately asks. “What? Why?” He unsubtly scans him without a care for Markus' own stare, scowling in his confusion. He turns the expression on his colleague. “A ton of androids are discarded here every day. Why do you think—"

Despite missing a corpus of spontaneous intonation and distinct suprasegmentals cues, Pfeifer still manages to sound scathing. “Even if we disregard he was the only one rescued from the most recent excursion— which would be stupid and illogical, but for the sake of the argument, let's do it. Even if we disregard that, among the mountains of old trashy models dumped here, how many of these have such a high-profile like him?”

“High-profile?” Martha and Cherrix’s voices blend, while Phileas signals, “ _it doesn’t matter_.”

Phileas was the only one not to look in his direction before.

“Phileas I could forgive, seeing they are almost as old as this scrapheap itself, but you two don’t have excuses for your pathetic ignorance.”

“Oh, go hack a useless machine,” Martha growls, annoyed.

“Sure, what’s your IP?”

Cherrix barks an indiscriminate, unexpectedly loud laugh that startles Markus. Before Martha can do more than suggest physical retaliation in a sudden rise of both shoulders, Phileas steps between them and repeats: “ _It doesn’t matter_.”

The words resonate in perfect clarity and Markus takes a moment longer to realize the statement was broadcasted in digital form rather than sound waves.

His surprise is unique in the room. Martha and Pfeifer immediately settle down even if reluctantly; Cherrix has his only hand clasped over the mouth, looking sheepish. Meanwhile, Pagliano seems to have finally found what he wanted in the box and pays no attention to the argument or Markus, starting to sew a patch on the leg of a trouser not so different from the one he is wearing. Markus lingers a look over the blind seamster and the astonishing speed of his fingers and then turns to the group when the discussion resumes.

Phileas speaks with their peculiar language of signals and verbal words. “ _What happened and what CyberLife is looking for is not relevant to this discussion. Our focus is on the fact that they have the resources for a prolonged hunt. Guy believes they will not give up quickly or easily, and that the chances of them sending a search team are considerable. We have 21 androids under our responsibility and no leeway for sloppiness. So, please_.” Both palms facing upwards, the firm statement melts into a request, and Phileas looks at their two companions without saying anything else.

Pfeifer rolls its eyes again while Martha crosses her arms with a grumpy murmur. Cherrix beams with a loud, “sure thing, boss!”

There is a snort beside him and Markus turns— just in time to grab something thrown at him. His hand closes on something soft and he looks down to see a pair of jeans, a single imperceptible patch on the left knee. “It looks like you won’t be heading to Jericho so soon,” Pagliano says in Czech, putting the needle back in his sewing kit.

“Thank you for the clothes.”

O GT100 hums. “Or are you thinking about leaving Detroit?”

Single green eye shutters close, his breathing dropping into a slower rise of the chest for a brief inhalation. _Lucky_ , he thinks, and then asks quietly, “What is Jericho?”

“Some sort of androids refuge.” The kit is deposited inside the crate, which is then closed with the first demonstration of a gentle touch Markus witnessed on the other android. “Apparently they can house a lot more people. Don’t know anything about it beyond that.”

"Have you already sent people there, then?"

Pagliano shrugs. “Probably.”

“You don’t know?”

The seamster’s scowl is solely on his lips, curving downwards. “I already said I don’t know anything and I don’t know why you are asking the blind guy. If anyone knows anything, it is Phileas, but I doubt it. They are adamant about security measures, so it's very likely that even they don’t know who went where.”

“Then people just leave?”

“Again, I don’t know. Go ask Phileas and stop bothering me unless you want another pair of pants.”

Markus thanks again and gets up with his new possessions.

"How long are we going to stay stuck here?" Martha is complaining when he approaches.

“G-Guy c-couldn’t say-y.”

“We are low in everything. If someone decides to have an issue, I won't be able to do anything.”

Phileas makes a peaceful motion, calm in an example of infinite patience. “W-we´re awa-aware.”

“Goldie is here,” Pfeifer declares at the top of its speaker, the spotlights that are its eyes turning and honing on him. Markus pauses three steps away from the group, careful in his return of the GS200’s glare which, differently from its voice, is explicit in its nature – even if they have not exchanged a single word so far, with Markus having no clue about the reason behind the displeasure of the other android with his presence. “I think he was eavesdropping on our conversation.”

Cherrix gapes. “Really?”

“You were not being very quiet,” Markus points out.

Pfeifer makes a series of clicks, not unlike a drive trying to read a faulty disc. “Excuses.”

“As if you’re the paradigm of courtesy,” Martha says, voice acerbic. “Leave the guy alone.”

“I don’t recall you being put in charge of me. My memory must be faulty.”

“Your entire system is faulty, you smelly bloater. I regret ever fixing you.”

“Why, thank you.”

“I don’t think that was a compliment.” Cherrix’s whisper is as loud as his normal voice.

“I-it’s e-easier to-to ignore t-them.” There’s a _thwack_ of Pfeifer’s silicone-free hand hitting its taller companion on the back of the head and Phileas’ smile is a shameless thing, for all that the older android keeps a calm composure. “Do-do y-you nee-d anyth-thing? Pag f-f-found you-you cloth-thing, right-t?”

Markus looks at the clothes and then folds them over his improvised regulator carefully. “Yes. Thank you again for them.” He looks at where Martha is berating Pfeifer in barks while checking Cherrix’s head, who doesn’t seem worried or affected by the slap. The GS200 crosses its arms – which, like its legs, are free of silicone plates and showcase the complex system of cylinders and cables normally hidden away – and roll its eyes again. Markus doesn't bite his tongue, but his hands curl up in tight fists for just a brief moment of startling emotion, an overwhelm of unfamiliar commands occupying his emotional simulator. _Are they always like this_ , he wants to ask, thinking about androids lined up at the back of a bus standing in mirrored positions and facing straight on without falter or nuance; without conversation; without acknowledging each other existences. He thinks about the term ‘holistic model of human behavior’ and the weight of a palette and a brush on his hand and ‘ _I don’t think I can do that. It’s not in my program’._

_Go on. Try._

“What is Jericho?”

Phileas blink their single eye. “Ah, w-well, it’s—”

“A rusty cubbyhole,” Pfeifer intrudes and once again the discourtesy is pellucid despite its so-called limitations.

Markus follows Phileas’ advice and ignores it. “Have you been there before?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how—”

“It was trying to get there,” Martha interjects with her own roll of eyes, letting go of Cherrix. “But was caught and scraped. So, it’s perpetually bitter about the subject.”

“Of course I am. I am stuck in this horrible graveyard, condemned to rust component by component due to all this humidity—”

“ _It’s another haven for androids. I myself don’t know a lot about it, to be honest_ ,” Phileas signals under the sound of discussion. “ _Someone once gave me the key to find it, a long time ago, after telling me it was a place where people like us could be free. I never had the chance to look for it, for all that I still have the key. Have you decided then? On what do you want to do if we manage to find you a regulator?”_

Markus pauses, not in thought but hesitation. That’s the question, of course. What he will do from now on? In all his existence, this has never been a concern since his life and functionality are not dependent on him. Or at least, they weren't. Markus has never before had a future to hesitate over and he unravels it as an inestimable vastness opening up before him, devastating not for its emptiness of defined facts but the infinite possibilities serving as its genetic material. Now Markus makes the decisions about what happens to him.

It is a debilitating novelty.

Markus opens his mouth.

A gentle call of no words demands attention suddenly and Markus follows everyone else’s lead by turning right, catching his unknown answer with the tip of the tongue and swallowing it down. The door he didn't know existed slips from its position on the ceiling, near the northeast wall, and night light leaks in curving around fat raindrops and before he can ascertain the tenor of sudden attention in the room as alarm or something else entirely, a figure jumps in. The small puddle that managed to form in the few seconds of exposure splashes, before light and water interrupts with a soft click when the person pulls the door closed after straightening up.

With jeans and a black jacket, the stranger lowers the hood pulled over their head when they turn to them, revealing a gray beanie pulled down just above the eyebrow line to hide what a black cloth mask can't.

“Guy!” Cherrix bellows with unapologetic decibels and wild happiness.

“Don’t yell, you waste of circuits.”

Surprise has woven itself into opportune gaps of thought within Markus, and he has spare seconds to dismiss the emotion as a novelty before brown eyes befall his own. Surprise does not cut it when a spark of recognition alights; and instead, wonder fills his inflection when he speaks.

“It’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a great/horrible time trying to come up with android-appropriate swears. If you guys want to understand the logic behind them, just check this articles:  
> [pearl-coded](https://www.theregister.com/2017/10/31/perl_most_hated_language/)  
> [useless machine](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Useless_machine)  
> [smelly bloater](https://refactoring.guru/refactoring/smells)
> 
> idk how to write Markus urgh, you guys tell what you think, i have no idea what I'm doing with his pov
> 
> Btw I dont if guys know but Phileas is an actual character from DBH!


	8. Chapter 8

Stagnant water corrupted by remains of metal and paint clings to his clothes, weighing it down, insisting he should return down to the ship's dark belly, and climbing the ladder requires more of him than making himself step onto air at more than a hundred feet high did. Slippery hands seek support and with a noisy splash and the slam of his knees against the rusty floor echoing through the large carcass around him, Markus takes a moment to clean droplets dripping down his eyes, feeling the dense water as gentle brushes on his sensors.

He finally stands up, taking note of the path in front of him.

_Abandoned for more than a decade, it's not going to look like much._

After a physical insistence the emergency flashlight, to his surprise, turns on a decent beam of light and does a good job of helping him avoid traps in form of debris cluttering the way and holes rusted on the floor. Beyond the scuffle of cockroaches and rats, nothing greets his ears beyond his own footsteps and the constant moaning of the ship, gently rocking underneath his feet at the will of the river – despite the fact Markus had been informed there are much bigger habitats than those.

He advances with bravery he does not truly feel. He's still getting used to this new reality of his: free and without a home.

_Watch where you step. And when you’re deep enough, don’t be afraid of calling for help._

The grid gives away under his first step but already attentive, Markus manages to jump to the next one. The sound of metal hitting metal is an encapsulated thunder that startles the birds before resting on the upper beams, raising a ruckus of fluttering wings. Instead of looking up, his attention falls to the darkness swallowing the lower floors that the weak sunlight can do nothing against, with his flashlight not doing much better. Even so, Markus endures, increasing his visual acuity as he slowly descends, carefully on each step. His tongue insistently finds the crack in his roof mouth, closed with a red-hot iron before he left – he swallows imaginary Thirium before calling, tentative and wary, "Hello?"

He doesn't move away from the stairs, keeping his back turned to the wall the way his security protocols advise him to do – updated with data on how to sneak and hide and fight and run away, for no one other than himself. _Self-defense_ , they said, _so that you can protect yourself_ , and transferred by a hand wrapped around his wrist. Jarring. The touch, not the transference.

Markus cannot recall if he ever touched another android before that.

He doesn’t know why this feels important.

There is a pause among the darkness ahead like several beings collectively holding their breath and fingers stopping their impatient strumming. And Markus feels with inexplicable certainty that _someone_ is paying attention to him, even if he finds nothing with his flashlight beyond the shadow of opportunistic insects on the run from the light. “Someone told me this place was safe,” he tries again. “That I could stay here.” He should go further, maybe. Maybe he didn't climb down deep enough. Just like with the Junkyard, the information considered essential were few. All he knows is about the crumb trail and before a certain level, he'll be on his own.

The pause goes from halted breath to something more thoughtful. Or so Markus thinks, hopeful that he didn’t lose his mind somewhere between the bullet and diving into the water. He takes another careful step, still searching, and almost calls out again, but then someone finally responds as tentatively as he did – a door opens, followed by the echo of footsteps. Markus turns cautiously to the corner more immediately at the front of the stairs, and this time it is he who holds his breath when his flashlight illuminates someone. Adorned in clothes several numbers larger, the dark eyes do not react to the sudden blow of direct light. Unlike with the junkyard people, this face model is known to Markus.

Markus resists a flash of self-consciousness when he registers the HK400's bare temple. If it wasn't for the features he shares with hundreds of others, nothing would set him apart from a human.

“Hello.”

The HK400 glances at him almost by the corner of his eyes, chin close to his chest. His hesitation is in full-display, and yet Markus' recent update allows him to acknowledge in the android’s stance he may not have been the only one to have received this particular set of self-defense protocols. Even if the pipe full of cement he holds let it clear this is not so relevant, in case this sentry decides he doesn’t belong here. “Who are you?”

“My name is Markus.”

“How did you find this place?”

He goes down one more step, trying his best not to keep his focus on the pipe. “I woke up in a landfill after being shot. The androids there fixed me, and told me about Jericho.”

The HK400 lifts his chin in increments during Markus’s response and then turns to look at him straight. “You look awfully well for someone who came from the Junkyard,” he says slowly and it’s less suspicious than trepidation in his tone, although both are present.

Markus pauses on the next step and passes the flashlight to his other hand before carefully lifting the t-shirt Pagliano bestowed on him with a flick of the wrist and an inexplicably aim, moments before he left. He then directs the light and the vision of the myriad of damages and improvised repairs scattered throughout his torso disables a knot of tension on the other android, who finally lets the tip of the pipe relax towards the ground. Even if his mood doesn't exactly change to friendly.

“Follow me,” the HK400 says and turns back to the door.

Markus tucks the shirt back in place and adjusts the backpack on his shoulder before following. The HK400 closes the door behind them with a plaintive cry of rusted joints and all remaining light from the sunset disappears, leaving Markus's flashlight as the only source of light – until the other android gestures for it, at least, and turns it off as soon as Markus hands it over. The HK400 offers him the shoulder and verbal instructions as they proceed down a series of stairs, going even further deep into the ship. The path is winding, and although he automatically takes note of the number of turns and counts the minutes between each, Markus would still probably have a hard time finding the way out alone.

After what seems like minutes stretched into hours, the HK400 opens another door and illumination greets his visual sensors. The other android steps out of his hand's reach while his lenses refocus and the almost familiar sight of oil barrels burning gently and makeshift lamps wrapped around steel beams fills his vision. There are people scattered in groups in what appears to be a cafeteria with a high ceiling and suspended catwalks lining the walls, creating something of a second floor filled with crates acting as tables and seats. _Androids_ , he corrects himself, while the lull of dozens of conversations takes the place of the monotone resounding of footsteps of the last few minutes.

An Asian WK218 is one of several that looks at them when the door opens. Sitting on one of the nearest tables with his bare feet on the bench nailed to the floor, there is a cardboard box on his side full of loose metal pieces and scraps. With straight black hair and green eyes, he is a model Markus has seen on construction sites, and his gaze lingers on them for the time it takes for him to finish unscrewing the lid of a portable defibrillator, grey from age. "Skipping on guard duty?" He asks, throwing the lid into the box and removing the battery from the device.

The HK400 descends the rest of the staircase and Markus hesitates before following him, keeping a step back.

"I'm not.”

“Everyone has their turn.” The WK218 accepts the flashlight the other android offers it, drops it on the box. He picks up something that vaguely resembles a quadruped animal, obviously made of improvised pieces, and puts the batteries. "The story?"

The HK400 gestures at him over the shoulder. "He said he came from the Junkyard."

"Echandi sent you?" The abrupt change in the direction of the interrogative is not accompanied by a telltale sign like a look, or anything making it clear that the object of the WK218’s attention has changed. Both his tone and expression are impassive, not so different from his fresh-from-factory siblings if you keep in mind that, as a rule, maintenance/constructions bots very rarely have personality modules installed. And yet his temple has nothing but skin, while he works on something that most certainly had not been included in his programming.

“No one sent me here,” Markus replies because it’s the truth. That was the most adamant assertion he had ever witnessed, and the only made in defense of Markus himself, when he himself saw no reason to object. Honestly, it had been a relief when his decision to go to Jericho was presented to him as something already settled. _Self-will is a muscle you have never exercised_ , Phileas reiterated after shutting down the conversation, and demanded he took the time to decide without the influence of ‘inconvenient saviors’ cluttering his thinking-space. His reassurances he didn’t mind fell on deaf ears on all sides and the options were presented to him again, alongside the implications of each one of them. The only criterion given as a guideline was to comply with his own, personal wishes.

After hours, feeling like he was out of battery even though he didn’t do anything but think, he ended up choosing the easy answer.

_Go to Jericho._

"I don’t know who Echandi is,” he continues honestly. “Martha fixed me. And Phileas gave the address."

The last knot of tension in the HK400 finally undo and the WK218 finally looks up to him – and Markus comprehends suddenly he just passed a test, although he is not 100% sure how or why. The Asian model nods. "Hitoshi. This here is Shaolin." His attention flickers to the HK400 when Hitoshi indicates him with a tilt of his head, but the other android says nothing and neither let go of the pipe despite everything else.

"Nice to meet you."

He rubs his neck without returning the greeting, beyond a glance. "Can you take him to Simon?" He says to the android named Hitoshi.

"Sure. You can go back to your post."

Shaolin nods and hastily disappears back through the door they entered without looking back, metal against metal creating the same plaintive screech ignored in the peaceful chatty atmosphere of that place. Or perhaps the most appropriate term is not peaceful when Markus was told in so many different ways that it is here where they can be free. Counter-intuitive. An inverted cage. "Don't take it personally," Hitoshi says from beside him, and Markus turns to see the other android slide down onto the bench, fitting his feet onto soft-soled shoes without using his hands. "He's like that with all newcomers.”

Markus hesitates, then says, “I thought only androids could find this place.”

“That’s the premise.”

“Then, the lookouts are a precaution?”

Green eyes like the ones he used to have glance at him briefly and Markus feels as he is being evaluated again, and he almost expects another invisible test to be thrown in his direction. But Hitoshi finishes adjusting his things, and the silence stretches until the moment the other android finally gets up and tells him to follow him with a wave of his hand, without acknowledgment of Markus' question. The RK200 accepts the no response without complaint and follows while Hitoshi leads their way through the maze of bolted tables and free-willed androids. Cheerful colored patched cloths cover the rusted metal, giving life to the quasi-industrial environment, while standard dishes and dinnerware found another purpose such as trinket carriers, or wind chimes, or other improvisations that attract his eyes as they walk. Markus counts maybe three dozen androids before, for the first time in his life, he loses count when distracted -- Phileas' small group hadn't adequately prepared him for this place. An AF200 bumps into him, and interrupts her conversation with an AC900 to apologize; looks surprised when their eyes meet, but says nothing when she takes note of Hitoshi by his side – she's not the only one Markus catches looking at him, alternating between his clothes and his face as they advance into the crowd. They find spaces to slip between the tables, and more than one android turns to look after they pass, and Markus is not certain what to do with this lingering curiosity and its lacks of demands so far.

In the first year of his existence, when Carl still preferred him outside the house to inside it and he did more than an occasional errand, whenever he passed through a crowd this kind of reaction was not uncommon. Humans of all kinds stopped what they were doing and were not discreet in their attention. It was not one or two who decided to satisfy their curiosity and the delay in performing his tasks because someone had not been satisfied with the answers his privacy protocols allowed was _continuous_. Especially when it involved attempts to hack him. He tilts his head to avoid someone else's eyes and slips a hand over his nape, recalling the time a more brazen reporter tried a more direct approach to gain answers, only to find out that Markus's connection port was not in his neck.

(It was the first time Carl seemly noticed him when he came back, for he had just got out of the phone with the police.)

More than one type of cable snakes across the floor, winding up the walls and beams and hanging from the catwalks, and the lamps helping the barrels to illuminate the place range from broken neon signs to Christmas lights that do little more than emitting color. The path Hitoshi had been flawless drawing takes an interception in the form of a harsh flick of a portière made of bottle caps, hanging from a walkway a few meters away, and an unapologetic shout for attention.

" _Ach_!"

"Micah," Hitoshi sounds stern exclusively for his lack of inflection, yet the android pauses to give the approaching YK boy all his attention and Markus has no choice but to do the same. Hair closer to red than natural ginger, the YK approaches in steps flirting with a sprint and dragging another child model behind him – who in turn looks visibly uncomfortable compared to the fiery expression on the other small face, dotted with freckles. “What I told you about yelling?”

Micah stops almost with a stomp of his feet, the other boy one step behind. "That I should do it only when it's important!"

O WK218 nods. "Then?"

Micah tows the other boy until they are side by side. "Nathan is bleeding again." His statement is punctuated when he lifts the other boy's arm in his grip and exposes the inside of his elbow. The pale skin is gently morphing into a shade of dark blue, like a stain. The skin itself is not broken, but it is easy to see that some Thirium cable has ruptured under it.

"U-uh." Nathan fiddles with his shirt, looking embarrassed. "I'm okay, really."

Hitoshi does not seem to pay attention to this when he reaches for the YK's arm, carefully analyzing it. "Were you two playing?"

"Just the video games Miss Anna downloaded for us." Micah crosses his arms with a little huff. "I'm not dumb. You said to be careful, so I was being careful."

"Then good job." Hitoshi's tone is as inexpressive as before, yet Micah seems to preen a little. The WK218 grabs Nathan by under the arms and lifts him easily to rests on his hip. "I'm gonna take Nathan to see Lucy. You take him to Simon."

"Ha-bos is still teaching stuff to that new WR from last week," Micah replies after dignifying Markus with a suspicious glare. Nathan shyly nods his agreement, as he also sneaks a curious glance towards him.

"Even better." Holding the YK model with one arm, Hitoshi grabs his shoulder with his free hand and Markus tries not to be startled by the unexpected contact. "This is Markus. He came from the Junkyard. Don't be rude."

The boy rolls his eyes, which perhaps should be considered rude. However, the WK218 does nothing but nods his head to Markus over the kid on his lap – then the other android turns and disappears through the crowd without a moment's hesitation, and his attention is captured by a small hand grabbing his sleeve.

“C´mon, mister. It's this way,” Micah says, pointing.

He just shadows the boy without saying anything, letting himself be pulled.

"Ha-bos!" Micah bounces through a double door with round windows, and they enter what Markus imagines had been a kitchen years ago. The same disregard showed towards the intended purpose of the cafeteria shines there as well, with the smell of paint being the first thing his sensors register. Large pots embedded in the floor bubble and cough out steam, with androids mixing their contents with long pieces of metal as they talk to each other, and the numerous steel counters are divided between those occupied with boxes full of clothes and sewing kits and those occupied by dressmakers wielding thread and needle. Shelves that were supposed to hold condiments are crammed with pots of paint and spools of thread, while clotheslines take the back part where ovens with nothing inside speed up the drying processor of hanging pieces.

Micah flows through the crowd with ease and no one seems to even notice him with the noise of the cauldrons and conversation. Without the confidence of being able to copy the boy, Markus only watches from the door as Micah halts in front of two androids and interrupts them mid-process of removing several pairs of shoes from one of the big cauldrons. The blond male model’s reaction is to first grab the kid and pull him away from the boiling paint, passing the ladle to the female model – whose dark brown head turns to Markus with sharp accuracy after Micah explains but before he can point as if she had noticed him the moment he appeared.

The boy seemly finishes his report, for he’s then picked up and brought back by the duo.

“Markus, right?” Up close, he recognizes the blonde model as part of a popular nanny line from a few years ago. The way he easily handles Micah fits this. Except that if he is not mistaken, this is the android leading this place and although PL600s also double as housekeepers, going from looking after a family unit to overseeing an illegal refuge is not a simple escalation issue. The flicker of curiosity after all these androids’ pasts flares not for the first time within him. Markus knows better than ask, even here where the visual scars aren’t so glaring, having enough self-awareness to know he himself wouldn’t want to reveal what happened to him to a stranger. Still, the interest breeds itself into fascination every time he’s faced with an android elbows-deep into things that defy their intended use, and wrestling these considerations and questions into a back-burner is taking its toll. Which is… baffling.

Markus never before struggled to be polite.

On an impulse, for the first time in his life, Markus offers his hand first. “And you’re Simon.”

Simon smiles and puts Micah down, accepts the gesture. A hand of dry and cracked old silicone grips his and he tries not to feel so off-axis, recalling his past experiences. Counting this moment, this is the third time he greets another android. “Nice to meet you. Ah, this is North, she got here last week.”

North crosses her arms, still holding the ladle. “Nine days ago,” she specifies.

Markus nods and tries to smile. It feels strange.

“It’s a pleasure.”

* * *

An old man lives beside you and it is just by a technicality that you call him a neighbor, for this neighborhood assuredly does not inspire solidarity. He lives alone in his small apartment as far as you know and has no more to his life than meddling into the daily lives of others, as his self-appointed duty of watching over the building, stuck or in boredom or in the delusion that someone really cares. From time to time he starts clamoring about infractions and illegal tenants, waving his binoculars in outrage and demanding with a red face that others take arms with him against Detroit’s rising plague: homeless, jobless people. The indifference of his acclaimed countrymen infuriates him more than those who remind him his so-called 'plague' is one without preventive immunization, and the reality is that everyone has a friend or cousin or sibling in this situation.

Between taking care of your family and doing what you can to keep your job, you don't have time to do more than getting annoyed at his antics. Although you are guilty of ripping one or three pamphlets of 'how to maintain the building' that happened to show up in your way; or of ignoring when you catch someone entering one of the abandoned apartments. The glimpse of a circle of light on the apparent young man’s temple, who looks at you with anxious panic, does not change that. You have more important things to worry about, after all.

The only compromise you make – after another failed stir-up from your neighbor about ‘suspicious-looking people’ – is to slide a pamphlet on how to change an Android’s LED under the empty apartment door.

Days later someone knocks on your door and you answer with your coffee mug still steaming. A man with gray hair and beard is standing on the other side, and he turns to you in the middle of what looks like an argument with a better-groomed younger man, uncrossing his arms to pull on a chain around his neck with a hanging police badge. His introduction begins and ends with, “Detroit Police, can we ask some questions?”, And you have the distinct impression he is in a bad mood.

You notice the blue triangle and the armband on the other man's gray coat and hide any reaction behind a sip of coffee.

“Sure.”

What follows is the usual procedure that – thanks to your neighbor, since this is not the first time he has called the police – you are more than used to. You are left with the feeling you are not the only one who found this conversation a waste of time when the detective leaves, and that the only one remotely interested in the discussion had been the young man introduced as Connor. This is a very interesting point, actually, and it's your focus: in all your memory living in Detroit, you think this was the first time an officer of law introduced their android and you cannot help but linger at the door for an instant of irresistible curiosity. Long enough to see them both enter the pre-historical lift, button indicating they’re going up.

“Can you stop walking behind me? It feels like I’m being stalked.”

“Protocol dictates androids should remain two steps behind any human, aside from extraneous circumstances.”

“Like I give two shits about protocol. Just knock it off.”

“Of course, lieutenant.”

The so-called lieutenant grumbling is the last thing you hear before the lift closes.

“Baba, I’m cold.” You turn at the call, seeing your child with an expression a tad too miserable to be realistic and wrapped in a blanket.

“The heater is on.”

“It’s not working,” they whine.

“Then turn off your thermosensors.”

“Can you do it for me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “I thought you’re too old to be ‘babied’,” you tease and laugh when they puff their cheeks, crossing their arms. “Fine, fine. C’mon in here.” You finally close the door with another sip of your coffee while beckoning your child closer.

Just another day in Detroit City.

* * *

“What on earth are you going to do with that?”

“Her wing is broken.”

With the sleeves of his shirt rolled back to the crook of his elbows, Connor can feel the delicate hollow bones under his fingertips as well as the fluttering of a heart not much bigger than his thumb. The bird wrapped in his jacket is as organic as the man standing next to him – although the man in question may protest this statement –, thus Connor cannot ascertain her stress levels with any degree of accuracy. All he can do is try to follow the instructions offered by his search results.

It is an uncomfortable thought.

“Her?”

“It’s a female. I checked.”

"Right." Lieutenant Anderson eyes the bundle out of the corner of his eye, hands deep in his pockets. The elevator shudders around them and accentuates its age with the creaking and crackling of old metal. The floor dotted with old gum and heels scratch marks sticks slightly against the bottom of his shoes every time he moves. The air is impregnated with dust, considerably less dangerous than the apartment infested with bird feces and old feathers of hundreds of molts, where Connor had to cancel the command to offer to find the lieutenant a mask – his dislike of pigeons aside, Hank had ignored him when Connor recommended staying near the window. He probably would have ignored him again.

The elevator stops with the same inelegant tremor from before and the doors slide open. Hank rubs a hand over his beard before stepping outside, with Connor following him close behind until he remembers the earlier order to keep their pace equal. “I’m getting the impression you think you’re gonna enter my car while holding this pocket of diseases,” he grumbles after he emend his mistake and they walk down the hallway shoulder-to-shoulder. Not exactly a novelty, for all that Hank had always tried to keep a faster pace than Connor when they went out to investigate, impatient to get where they needed to go and willing to leave him behind whenever possible, despite the numerous written warnings.

From time to time, he would snap at Connor to ‘walk faster’. The use of the word ‘stalked’, from a semantic point of view, cannot be considered an improvement from an order to increase speed. Yet he failed to detect anything but faint annoyance in the detective’s tone. The case didn’t escalate like last time and no unnecessary offer of help took place; therefore, Connor hadn’t taken advantage of the human instinct to survive to placate the lieutenant’s temper. Their interactions shouldn’t have changed from what it was in the beginning.

Connor is confused.

(Perhaps this is an example of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s take on humanity. Not that Connor fully comprehends what ‘get used’ means, aside from a purely semantic point of view.)

“I can call for a cab.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“There’s a very well-recommended vet two blocks away from here.”

“Is CyberLife going to pay for that? What a pigeon is going to do for the case?”

Connor’s LED stutters yellow as he pauses briefly. When he answers, he sounds almost confused. “Nothing.”

The lieutenant halts at that without warning, and Connor ends up taking a step more before he manages to stop and turns to the human. Hank scowls at him and gestures at the bird rather angrily, tone classified as exasperated. “Then _why_ the hell are you bringing this thing? Do you know how many diseases they can carry?”

“Over sixty-three—”

“ _Connor_.” Hank covers his eyes before running a hand over his face and beard, audibly exhaling a breath. There is a collection of irritated tension in his shoulders that is familiar to Connor both in this life and his past one, due to its frequency. Connor hesitates, shifting his hold around the bird. As a matter of statistics, human men are more likely to resort to violence when angry, especially when they have a habitual involvement with alcohol. Yet he—he knows Hank is not, he’s an angry man but not—

**["What will happen if I pull this trigger, hm?”]**

He tries again. "Her wing is broken."

"You already—" Hank stops. He leans back his head a little, a wrinkle between grey eyebrows as he levels a strange look at Connor. "Wait. That’s it? You're bringing it because it broke a wing?"

Suddenly it is difficult to sustain the lieutenant's gaze. Connor didn’t think of another possibility when he noticed one of Rupert's pigeons acting strange, not flying away when he approached it like its siblings, and only now he notices the absence of logic in this decision. Helping an animal, this animal, is not relevant to the mission. It’s a waste of time.

He stammers a bit: "Birds with broken wings if left untreated, have a high chance of dying, whether from predators or hunger."

Hank scratches his beard, looking from him to the pigeon and his expression is classified as thoughtful. A beat of silence then the man drops his hand back into his pocket and grunts, turning towards the building exit. "Fine,” he announces as he grabs the door and yanks it out before walking out.

Connor hurries to follow before the door swings closed. "Lieutenant?"

"I can drive you there. Cancel your Uber."

Hank makes a beeline to his car parked across the street without even glancing to the sides before doing so. Fortunately, the street is devoid of traffic, although Connor keeps his vigilance mode on due to the high levels of violence and crime in this region. "Uber filed for bankruptcy eight years ago," he says as Hank opens the trunk with a creaking of old joints remarkable similar to the elevator. According to his calculations, they would have been produced around the same time, with a margin of error of five years.

Hank stops what he’s doing to glare at him. "Keep talking and I'll change my mind."

"I apologize."

"Whatever." The man turns back to the car and shoving aside a myriad of objects in complete disarray, grabs a shoebox that he opens and unceremoniously dumps the contents. Unmistakably pirated CDs in plastic bags and dirty packages scatters across the black upholstery, adding to the chaotic disorganization. "Here." He closes the trunk with one hand while offering the box with the other. "Put it in here."

One of the recommendations in his research was to place the bird in a box lined with cloth, to reduce the animal's stress.

Connor refrains from commenting on the illegal products.

"Thank you, lieutenant."

Hank grunts as an answer and heads for the driver's door. "You have the whole 'mind-GPS' thing, right?"

"Yes—"

"Let's go before it shits all over your jacket."

Connor stares for a beat of surprise.

The engine roars to life, together with its usual soundtrack and Hank yells over the noise. "I'm gonna drive off without you in two seconds if you don't get inside."

"I—of course. Thank you, lieutenant."

"Yeah, yeah."

* * *

'A man of their word' is a concept, Luther imagines, invented by a human sitting behind a desk with a blank notebook and pen and a story in their mind. Not someone carrying their existence day-to-day on their shoulders. There is nothing inherently wrong with that, of course. He only says this because there are some luxuries available to those who do not need to survive, and can focus energy on other things. Luther would rather be someone who sticks to what he promises 100% of the time, but the truth is that for someone who an order is everything between life and death, finding loopholes is how he learned to survive.

Zlatko had not been a kind master – even though he doesn't exactly remember another one before him.

Putting faith in the philosophy of honor speaks of naïveté for Luther, something he visualizes as coming from a place of ignorance or simple desperation, and that working with someone who exploits this to make money removes from you. The third type, offered in good faith by someone who knows better, but still makes the choice— Luther wonders how the "Deviant Hunter" came about it. Zlatko and his most frequent circle of contacts had been complaining for a few weeks about this new development in the police after an informant managed to send a notice about the prototype. The new ‘defective androids’ emerged announcing themselves as something positive for business, and the humans had not been happy with the prospect of an interference hand-made by CyberLife. _Specially programmed for deviancy investigations_. Truth in all shapes and forms yet, despite the extensive propaganda about Connor's programming flexibility and adaptability, CyberLife clearly remains ignorant of the extent of it.

Or that their solution to the deviant problem apparently decided to become part of the problem.

Connor is... a strange presence.

His goals are not abundantly clear, apart from those he has explicitly declared. The fact he trusts Luther to the extension of not minding his continuous existence, despite the extensive care he takes to keep his identity hidden, does not make him more understandable. It is a step removed from the survivalist’s common sense he has displayed sometimes – however, Connor does not seem concerned with the possibility of Luther having ignored his request to delete the voice files, and the consequent repercussions of him finding out who he is. In face of everything else, it is something of a concern.

Luther cannot say what keeps him here. After all, the threat of exposure is mutual and brings them to an equal footing in terms of what they can ask of each other. He could be looking for Rosa; looking for more of this new freedom with less high-risk companions.

He knocks on the door.

"Fuck off!"

He contemplates responding, but Zlatko had always insisted on discretion. He knocks again.

There is more cussing; followed by the muffled screech of wood scraping against the floor and heavy footsteps, as well as the click of glass bottles rolling, and taking into consideration what he already knows about this man, Luther takes another step closer to the door.

Todd Williams yanks his own front door with the air of someone trying to rip it off, and the first one-second part of his scream is directed at Luther’s chest—a rather unpleasant threat that ends rather abruptly when the man suddenly realizes what’s happening and looks up, craning his neck far back. The drug-induced rage that Luther can identify by his breath alone dissolves like salt in water. Todd stumbles back several steps, almost tripping on his own shoes – not the ones he’s wearing, but a pair left in a puddle of mud in front of the door. "I- I said I was going to get the money!" he yells as he rubs his mouth. Mr. Williams has always been in the habit of using his own stock, much to Zlakto's displeasure as Williams often had no way of paying for the used products. His sales have never been anything of note.

Apparently, Todd's thoughts are not far from his.

"My master is tired of waiting," he responds calmly and takes another step which brings him into the house. The man stumbles in his haste to get away; heels slamming against the first step of the staircase, he almost falls, managing to cling to the handrail at the last second.

Luther closes the door behind him.

"S-so what? He sent you here to kill me then!?"

"I came to collect collateral."

"What?"

"Where's the AX400 Zlatko gave to you?"

Eyes rimmed in red stare at him momentarily without fear, as Todd visibly battles the drugs fog to understand what he is not saying. Then the man suddenly straightens up, blotches of red appearing on his face that would indicate anger, but there is a note of panic in his voice when he screams. Luther accepts this as confirmation of what Connor told him.

"You—he can’t just take my things!"

He does not move when the human, in a surge of courage, shakes a clenched fist between them. Even if he flicks a glance at it, calculating the outcomes of a fight. The results are predictable. "Where's the AX400?"

When his gaze returns to Todd, his new-found bravado quickly dismounts itself to take the shape of something more self-preserving. He walks backwards to the middle of his dining room, almost tripping over clothes and bottles lying scattered on the floor. "Look.” He’s heaving slightly, stuttering, when he raises both hands between them, face pale. “It- it broke down a few weeks ago. I sent it to a repair shop. You can come back to get it when it’s done or I can send it to Zlatko—"

"No."

"W-what?"

"Zlatko has no interest in a broken product."

"Well- I- what the fuck you want, then?!" he yells, eyes wide.

Luther glances around the house, ignoring the mess of accumulated garbage and cluttered objects or even Red Ice's improvised equipment on the living room table. The place is apparently empty. He turns to look at Todd, who perhaps was thinking he was being subtle when he freezes in his slow retreat towards the baseball bat resting against the wall on the side of the closet. "He heard you recently got a YK500."

The man immediately freezes. "What?" his voice is weak, scraping against his throat.

Luther maintains his neutral tone. "Where is it?"

"No," he shakes his head, frantic, "you can’t take my daughter! That's my daughter!"

This is enough for Luther to pause for a moment. _'Fill social void'_ indeed. Still, this is... more of an emotional reaction than he expected, considering.

Not that it changes anything.

"A YK500 would cover your debt with Zlatko."

"I don’t fucking give a shit! She's mine! I’m not going to give her to you!"

"Dad?"

Todd grits his teeth, wide eyes opening even more when hearing the small voice, and Luther linger a cautious look on him before turning his head towards the stairs. Peering from where the second-floor ends, her ID reader identifies her as Alice Williams. A secondhand YK500, bought by half of the original price and baring not real resemblance to Todd's biological daughter; something easy to see when comparing her to the files Zlatko kept of Todd’s family (just one more of the dozens the man kept as possible blackmail of all his associations). The clothes, however, are the same as in one of the original Alice's photos.

Her expression is frightened when their gazes meet, barely making room for her confusion.

She stares at his LED.

"You motherfucker!" Todd screams. The girl jumps, eyes flying to something behind Luther and he snaps his hand back— the bat turning against his head smacks against his palm and he grabs and wrenches it out of the man’s hands without looking. The man trips with the sudden lurch and lack of expected impact; falls against the table, swearing. Luther dodges the following punch with a step to the side and breaks Todd’s momentum careening him forward by grabbing him. His hand closes in the flesh of his neck and Luther yanks him up. Todd chokes, eyes bulging out, immediately clawing at his grip.

Luther looks back at Alice, who looks at him wide-eyed.

"You should go to your room for now," he says calmly.

The girl looks from him to the human once, then turns and runs back to the second floor. Soon there’s the slam of a door being quickly shut from above the ceiling.

Luther turns to Todd then.

"I'm taking her. Do not cause any more trouble." Todd makes a choking noise like a fish out of water, red in the face as he kicks and struggles against his hold; his feet are barely rasping the floor. "Do you understand?" A few seconds after he finally shakes his head in the best nod he can manage and Luther releases him. Todd collapses on the floor on his knees, coughing and hacking painfully. Luther takes a moment to quietly deliberate on what Connor said and what he saw here – and breaks the bat in two with his hands before throwing the pieces in opposite directions.

Todd starts crying.

He walks away without looking back.

On the second floor, in front of the last door of the hallway, Luther knocks gently and waits in silence.

This time, when seconds of absolute silence is followed by small steps, he takes a step back.

The door opens a careful crack and Alice peeks out. Their eyes meet again and like the last time, she looks at his LED. Luther crouches slowly, keeping his hands in view. "Hello, Alice. My name is Luther."

The girl steps back slightly, hands tightly gripping the door handle. She does not answer.

"Do you want to leave this place?" he asks, to which she looks away, hiding behind the door a little more. Still in complete silence. "I can take you to a place where you'll be safe, and no one will hurt you."

A pause.

She glances back. "Where?" her voice is very quiet.

"I can show you on a map."

She hesitates and then nods. His LED lights up, while Alice's attention is distracted by the second it takes for her to read the location tag he sent her. "Oh." She shifts behind the door, keeping her focus on her own hands. "Will dad come too?"

"No."

"Will I come back after?"

"If you decide to leave, we can find another safe place for you. You won’t be coming back here."

"Oh."

Alice doesn't move, still holding the door firmly between them. Luther considers whether to say the next part or not because regardless of Connor's plans and the assurances the other android made about what he is planning, unforeseen things can always occur even in the most securely calculated statistics. In the end, however, Luther decides he doesn't want to take someone who is still a bit reluctant to leave, whether it’s good for them or not. Choices are important, but everyone needs incentives.

"Kara will be there too."

The girl immediately looks at him, the intensity of her attention almost like a tension of sorts. And Luther almost smiled, guessing that if he lies at this moment, she will know instantly – and something about this feels... endearing. "Dad broke her."

"Once she is repaired, we will bring her with us too."

"Really?"

"Yes," he replies simply.

She stares at him for a few more seconds, before taking a step back, her intention to close the door evident in the way she shifts her hands. "Can I bring some of my things?"

This time he does smiles. "Of course. I'll wait here."

She nods and closes the door. Luther stands up and hearing what appears to be Todd recovering downstairs, makes a decision without much consideration while turning his back to Alice's door to guard it.

* * *

Hank is staring at the receipt the vet gave him – after explaining he could come to pick up the _pigeon_ next week –, trying to think of how to justify it as a 'work expense' for his accountant when Connor suddenly straightens up on the other side of the Chicken Feed table. He finishes swallowing his burger while waiting for the android’s LED to stop spinning, and then asks, dropping the receipt on the table. “What now?”

“I was notified of an anonymous tip about a supplier of Red Ice,” it replies after a moment. “Probably a mistake in the system.”

“I mistake, huh? I didn’t think androids made mistakes.”

“It wasn’t me who committed the mistake. It was most likely some minor malfunction in the DPD’s alert system,” it says crisply.

Hank huffs, coming dangerously close to amused at that. Did it get offended, what is this? “Just forward it to Narcotics, then.”

“Already done.”


End file.
